


Six Feet

by SnappingQuills



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Bickerfest, Eventual friendmance, Evolving Fenris, F/M, Fluff, Humour, Initial one-sided rivalry, Occasional angst, Occasional combat violence, Pining, Slow Build, UST, Well-meaning Troll Hawke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-09
Updated: 2012-02-18
Packaged: 2017-10-27 03:50:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 92,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/291323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnappingQuills/pseuds/SnappingQuills
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kinkmeme Prompt: Fenris and Hawke are bound together by magic.</p><p>Artemis Hawke is not only a mage, but one who is impossibly sunny, incapable of shutting her yap, and doesn't quite understand the concept of boundaries. So, naturally, fate saw fit to magically bind Fenris to the woman.</p><p>Of course, there is much more to Artemis than a big smile, grandma robes and magic -- just as there is much more to Fenris than his hate.</p><p>You can learn a lot about a person when you're forced to be with them every second of the day. You might even like what you find.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Nothing good ever came from walking Sundermount.

This was a place of death and restless magic, and each step taken upon its soil was a provocation to both. It was, at once, too dull and too bright, cold in a way that roused the hairs on one’s neck; and the many graves along its trails appeared too fresh, as though their ages-gone inhabitants had only recently been placed beneath the earth.

The higher Fenris and his companions climbed, the more he became convinced that they would come to regret testing the mountain’s patience.

Fog coiled around the ankles of its latest trespassers like cool, spectral fingers, and beneath the undulating mist swayed dewy grass, greener than green. There was a surrealism to these ancient grounds; the Veil a mere, fluttering curtain which allowed the Fade to spill over the mountain like sunlight.

This journey could not end too soon.

“Alright, it’s slightly less creepy here,” Hawke announced with a clap, “Time to set camp.”

The proclamation had Fenris snapping around to assess her face, and was incredulous to discover that this was _not_ simply one of their 'leader’s' ill-timed jests.

Varric huffed a laugh, turning in spot to observe their surroundings. “Translation: the corpses haven’t popped up yet.”

“Pretty much,” she said, unhooking the bed roll at her lower back.

Merrill shuddered. “I hate how they jump up like that.”

“That would be the part that scares you.” Varric shook his head, kicking his own bed roll so that it uncoiled along the grass. The banter and casual way in which everyone was preparing camp only teased Fenris’ annoyance.

The campsite Hawke had chosen was not bad, per se – a grassy landing with a fence of thin trees and jagged rock along its exposed edge to obscure the party’s view of the endless drop beyond (and offer protection for those who might roll off the mountain in their sleep).

It might have been a fine campsite, if not for the fact that this was _Sundermount_.

“It is foolish to spend the night here,” Fenris protested at last, stiff and surly amidst the bustle of the party’s camp-building.

Hawke fanned out her bed roll, tutting indignantly when the wind thwarted her efforts. The gust had also blown some of the strands of her glossy, brush-thick fringe askew, which she patted back down impatiently. The rest of her hair remained mostly bound within that eye-shaped barrette she favoured, the few that had escaped a small testament to the day’s toil.

“Well, I considered the altar grounds, but I imagine that Arcane Horrors make for poor bedfellows,” she said as she lowered to her knees, not even sparing a look for Fenris as she continued to unfurl the stubborn bedding, “All that screeching and flailing of arms, plus you just _know_ they’d steal the covers.”

“Our rations, too,” the blood mage offered eagerly, “They seem dreadfully thin.”

Fenris glared an imaginary hole into the side of Hawke’s head. “Spare me your trifling; you know precisely what I mean.”

The woman sighed dramatically and then rose to her feet, careful not to stumble on the hem of her dowdy, black robes. Irritatingly good-natured, she asked, “Alright then, what would you have us do instead, Fenris?”

Though it made no sense, the total lack of condescension in her manner was only cause for further frustration. The party’s other half was quiet now, familiar enough with these exchanges to know that it was wiser to stay out.

“I would have us not become sitting prey for demons,” he argued, and then honed in on Merrill, “These ruins are but an hour’s walk, are they not?”

The tiny elf dropped her bundle of kindling in surprise, doe-eyes blinking at him rapidly. “O-oh, yes, but–”

“Then we should continue,” he told Hawke imperiously, “Collect this blood mage’s damnable flowers and leave the mountain to its spirits.”

It was absurd enough that they were risking their lives simply to collect a _plant_ ; it was utter insanity that they should spend the night and risk their souls for the endeavour.

A thread of Hawke’s patience had split when he’d accosted Merrill, and she explained in a dragged tone, “Yes, the ruins may be nearby, but it is another day’s walk to the base.”

“Do not speak to me as though I am a child,” he snapped, “I am aware of this fact. But I would rather be in need of a long rest than risk being devoured by the evils here.”

“ _Fenris_ ,” she heaved, now pressing a thumb into the inner cup of her eye in attempt to stave off headache, “It is for this very reason that we are setting camp.”

“What she means, Fenris, is–”

“Daisy.”

“Oh right, shutting up again.”

“What I _mean_ ,” Hawke continued, casting Merrill a look of mock chastisement, “Is that when we do walk back down this demon playground, I would rather not do so half-addled with tiredness.”

“So this is about you, mage.”

“ _Ugh!_ ” Hawke threw up her arms, and Fenris quickly folded his own to hide his small twitch of surprise – Hawke very seldom had outbursts, “No, you idiot! This is about not wanting to trap Varric and your pretty, tattooed hide on top of a mountain with a couple of abominations!”

The dwarf, crouched down to collect twigs, muttered, “Hey, my hide’s not pretty?”

Fenris and Hawke ignored the jape and Merrill’s responding giggle. They glared into each other over their companions’ heads, the pupils of Hawke’s eyes tiny in the light of the setting sun, jade green irises flashing gold as the clouds shifted. After a tense silence, she broke the stare and shook her head in frustration. It was no victory, but there was still a degree of satisfaction in seeing the usually unflappable mage so annoyed.

“Look, we’re here and we’re staying, so you’ll just have to add this to the list of things you hate about me and move on,” she said exasperatedly, making for the log-seat her companions had placed before the unlit fire, “And Varric, yes, your hide is lovely.”

The laughter and answering quip was lost in the rush in Fenris’ ears, the simmer of his blood becoming a boil. Hawke’s sudden dismissal of an argument was nothing new, but repetition had done nothing to dull its insult. Watching as the mage engaged in banter as freely as though nothing had disrupted her cheer, as she ignited the pile of kindling with a snap of her magic-riddled fingers, it was difficult to remember why he had agreed to join this trek.

But more importantly, why he agreed to go _anywhere_ with Artemis Hawke.

A few prize curses itching his tongue, he turned away and skulked over to a rock, which was jutting out of the ground like a large, dull spearhead. The bare ground was cold and damp, but Fenris unclasped his sword and settled there anyway, using the rock face as a wall for his back.

Behind him, the rest of the party chattered merrily, all tension left to reside solely with the elf. Hawke let out a peal of laughter, the sound woody and unwelcomingly pleasing. It calmed some of his fire even as it stoked it, a paradox with which Fenris had become accustomed during his acquaintance with the woman.

Unseen by those sitting at the fire behind, Fenris tilted his head back and closed his eyes, trying to find some clarity in the breeze – however ominous and prickly that breeze might be. His debt to Hawke had long-since been repaid, and yet, here he was atop this wretched mountain. Even now, with his fingers twitching to wring the mage’s neck, he did not entertain thoughts of leaving her company – simply tried to make sense of why he remained.

Perhaps – and it made his lips thin to admit this to himself – it was the simple knowledge, that for all the hostility that lived between them, Fenris could still turn his back like this and not expect a knife.

✷

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ✷ I've mostly ignored the canon timeline/events. Have also taken a few liberties regarding house layouts, plumbing etc.  
> ✷ Apart from a couple of words, the Tevinter featured is completely of my own creation; inspiration taken from canon Tevinter, Latin, French and Italian. The Elven, however, is constructed from canon, barring a couple of words. I’ll also note that due to the limited number of Elven canon words and structural devices available, some of my compound words are pretty obscure :P.


	2. Chapter 2

“ _Rise and shine, my pretties!_ ”

Hawke’s voice cut through Fenris’ mind with all the delicacy of a fog bell after Happy Hour. The landscape of his dream sucked away with a force that dizzied.

“Come on!” she continued happily, clearly of the opinion that three seconds was enough time to shake off her sledgehammer approach to wake-up calls, “Up, up, up!”

The chill of too little sleep rattled through him, creating a small pit of nausea. His groan was echoed by the rest of the party.

“We’re moving, woman,” Varric murmured grumpily.

The rustle of blankets and clatter of cookware steadily urged away the effects of Fenris’ violent waking. Having taken watch for most of the night, he was anything but rested. It was with some effort that he finally opened his eyes, glad for the muted light of dawn. What he was not glad for, however, was the pasty blonde staring down at him from the end of his bed roll.

“I’m _awake_ ,” he groused, though his muscles weren’t quite roused enough to manage a scowl, “Go harass the blood mage.”

Hawke rolled her eyes, but had a small smile on her face – it chased away the last of Fenris’ disorientation with an effectiveness he dared not scrutinize. She skirted to his side and crouched, leaving something by the bedroll before rising and turning back to the oatmeal bubbling above the fire.

Once Hawke was sufficiently occupied, and he was certain that Varric and Merrill weren’t watching, Fenris rose onto his elbows to inspect what had been left by his bedding – feeling vaguely like a petulant child who was determined not to take his mother’s hand.

It was breakfast.

Only oatmeal, like that which Hawke was currently stirring, but with what appeared to be the last of her personal, dried banana crushed up into the mixture. Beside the steaming sludge was a small, yellow stamina draught.

Whether it was the unexpected thoughtfulness of the gesture, the knowledge that Hawke had been aware of his extended watch last night, or the strange thing his chest just did that made Fenris frown, he didn’t know.

Aware that it was probably all three, and marginally humbled, Fenris sat up and ate his meal in silence.

✷

 

The early morning did nothing to ease the inauspicious atmosphere of the mountain. The shadows thickened into puddles of pure blackness, and all that was already dull became duller, accentuating the strange vibrancy of the other colours. By the time they had conquered the perilous path to their destination, the sun had risen enough to at least cast the world into watery light. It was a small comfort, but a comfort still.

Their trail opened into a round clearing, the high curve of grass and rock in which it was walled giving the impression that someone had merely scooped away a portion of the mountain. The party paused at the lip of the ruins, a blanket of uncomfortable otherworldliness descending upon them. It was not the first time they had felt such a thing, having already prodded one or two of Sundermount’s secrets over the years.

But this place… there was something sinisterly compelling. There was the niggling idea that one might find themself unable to leave.

That thought was swiftly disregarded however, for Merrill – fearless in her stupidity – had begun to venture into the clearing, then Hawke, and there was nothing to do but follow.

The space was not large, and most of the area was consumed by six tall pillars. Not even the wind could make it into this pocket of the mountain, and so they walked in total silence amongst the spears of stone. The ruins were unnervingly illuminated, somehow spared the grey which still washed over the world beyond. It mimicked the idyll of a forest glade, but instead of trees, there were these monuments, and there was no sense of peace here, only one of foreboding.

Their pace had taken on a cautious slowness, as though they were wading through a bog. Then, as though the atmosphere was not already suffocatingly eerie, the little Dalish stopped, stretched her arms, and began to murmur in the old tongue.

“ _In alas, ma suledis,  
In durgen, ma sulahn lin la nan,  
Dar’atisha, na melana mana’vunin._”

The drawling prayer set his teeth on edge. Merrill could have been a ghost then.

Dragging his attention away from the unsettling moment, Fenris cast his eyes around the clearing.

Aged as the columns were, flecks of beauty could still be seen if the sun shone just the right way, hinting that they were inlaid with quartz or other stones. Glyphs had been carved deeply into the surface, and though the air around them positively shimmered with magic, it was clear by the frown he discovered on Hawke’s face that their significance was beyond her realm of knowledge.

“What is this place, Merrill?” she asked, having paused to trace a thin line of script with her finger. The writing was etched in seemingly erratic patterns, framing the many glyphs in circles, triangles and other shapes. This placed _thrummed_ with power, and Fenris felt the urge to smack the fool’s hand away. She was like a child reaching for a hot ember.

“This is the ground for those who have been placed under _hamin’utharel_ ,” Merrill said, sweeping her arm in a wide arc, “‘The rest of long dread’.”

“Oh, well that sounds sufficiently ominous.”

The elf continued, her face tilted back to view the high peaks of the pillars, “Before _Elvhen_ were quickened, those who had grown weary of their immortality underwent _uthenera_ , ‘the long sleep’. They would submit to endless slumber, waiting until they were claimed by true death.”

Hawke smoothed her palm over the textured surface of the pillar, twisting the rest of her body to face the little blood mage. The sun caught in her hair, streaking the heavy, golden fringe with a white glow.

Fenris blinked and looked away, glad he hadn’t been caught staring.

“But this place held another purpose?” she asked.

“Yes,” Merrill said, lowering her head to meet Hawke’s eye, “Just as some would begin to grieve their long lives, there were those who were driven mad.”

From his investigative crouch at the base of a pillar, Varric interjected, “So this isn’t just a graveyard, but a graveyard for crazy people?”

“Well… yes, I suppose. If one’s mind had been destroyed by immortality, and they refused _uthenera_ , their kin had no choice but to force _hamin’utharel_.”

“They were _forced to sleep?_ ” Hawke asked incredulously, dropping her hand from the stone, “That’s horrible!”

“It was meant as a mercy, but I agree that it was rather awful. The elders didn’t want to sleep, and so their spirits were fitful. To keep them from rising, they were bound to their graves by strong magic.”

“I see... So these glyphs–”

“Are ones of binding.”

“And this plant you want–”

“Only grows where such magic has been used.”

“And I’m standing on–”

“A dead person.”

Hawke jumped back with a shudder.

Varric chuckled, though he too moved away from the column he’d been inspecting.

“Right,” Hawke grimaced, “let’s just get this glue flower and go.”

Just beyond the final two pillars was a low altar; the party followed Merrill as she advanced.

It was but a slab of rock on the ground, completely unremarkable but for the large gold symbol emblazoned in its centre – two thin crescent moons, one solid in colour, the other empty. They were depicted side by side as mirror images, their curved backs just touching.

The party shuffled until they loomed from all sides, their shadows doing nothing to suck away the symbol’s brilliance. Just as with the smaller glyphs, the air above this one was thick and swaying, like a mirage; just being near made Fenris’ lyrium prickle.

“These around the altar’s edge,” Merrill said, and at once the party shook themselves and followed the elf’s gaze, “These are _vheravi_ ; binding flowers. I can create a sealing agent from these that should work on the more tricky parts of the _eluvian_.”

The mention of that infernal artefact made Fenris bristle. “How many times must we scale this mountain for the sake of this witch’s mirror?”

Having already taken Merrill’s lead, Hawke had squatted along one edge of the altar. She was opposite Fenris, and cocked her head up at him, an easy smile ready.

“As many times as it takes. Surely, you’d rather hike up Sundermount a few times than let Merrill use blood magic to fix her toy?”

“It’s not a toy, Hawke,” the Dalish sulked.

“I would rather she destroy the thing completely,” Fenris persisted, taking some satisfaction in looming over her like this.

“Yes, well, she’s not likely to do that–”

“ _I am right here_ ,” Merrill squawked.

“–so we’ll have to make do. Come on, the sooner you help, the sooner we can leave.”

Unable to deny how desperately he did want to leave, Fenris shoved down his pride and crouched with the rest of the party. This close to that riffling symbol, his markings actually stung.

Yes, he most _definitely_ wanted to leave.

Tiny flowers, like white clovers, followed the altar’s border. The edge of each petal was stained as though it had been dipped in blue ink. Fenris snatched up a bushel with a _rip_ , and brought it to his face in order to inspect properly. The _vheravi_ were pretty, but their scent was odd. There was nothing floral about the aroma, but rather something plain and earthy, like dust.

Interest already exhausted, he threw the flowers onto one of two growing piles. On the other side of the altar, Hawke was meandering, which was thoroughly hypocritical given what she’d just said to Fenris.

Twirling a single flower in her fingers, a pensive expression on her face, she asked, “Do you think I could take a few of these for Sol, Merrill?”

“I don’t see why not,” Merrill beamed back, her small body rocking as she tore a bundle free, “Solivitus is such a nice man, I doubt the spirits would mind. Besides, _vheravi_ grow back quickly, so we can always come back for more if we need to!”

“Oh yes, let us make a tradition of walking this death trap,” Fenris sniped, chucking another bushel onto the heap.

Hawke laughed under her breath and threw aside the flower she’d been twirling. “Have no fear, Fenris, you have hereby been excused of any future Sundermount expeditions.”

His head snapped up at that, but Hawke was now focussed on harvesting the flowers, a curiously blank expression on her face.

The statement was irksome when it should have brought relief. And _that_ was irksome. For all that he had berated Hawke for this trek, the idea of being left behind on the next one felt heavy in his gut.

They harvested for a few minutes more, until Merrill chirped, “I think we have enough!”

“Thank Andraste,” Varric grumbled, stopping immediately, “Bianca will start to think I swing for the other team if I pick one more flower.”

Hawke laughed, but breathlessly, for she was still tugging at a small bundle of _vheravi_.

“Ugh, come on you little bastards,” she said, now using both hands.

“It’s ok, Hawke, we really don’t need anymore,” Merrill repeated, already tidying up one of the heaps they’d gathered.

“I know, but it’s a matter of pride now,” she paused and shook the hair out of her eyes, “Why aren’t these coming loose!?”

Not sure why he was helping, Fenris said blandly, “Half the stems are underneath the altar.”

By the way Hawke’s eyebrows shot up, she wasn’t sure why he was helping either.

“I see…” she murmured, making no comment, “Very well, I’ll just have to pull _harder_. I refuse to be bested by the local flora.”

Both Merrill and Varric were watching avidly now, amused with the situation.

One of Hawke’s hands curled over the edge of the altar for purchase while the other grasped the flower stems.

“This is ridiculous.” Fenris crossed his arms.

Hawke gave him a sarcastic look. “What’s ridiculous is your total lack of good humour.”

“Just be done with this, mage,” he spat, one hand clawing into the dirt, “I would be away from you as soon as possible.”

Something flashed through her eyes – anger and… something else he didn’t have time to interpret.

“Fine,” she clipped, setting her jaw, “You shan’t have to see me at all after this, if that is your wish.”

And before Fenris could retort or make sense of the heaviness that had returned to his gut, Hawke jerked her hand back. The stems gave with a succession of snaps, and Fenris saw what was going to happen just before it did.

Without the anchor of the stems, the momentum launched the hand Hawke had pushing on the altar into a harsh, forward slide, taking her whole body with it. She yelped, her palm scraping across the rock, and there was a bustle as everyone realised that in half a second, she was going to fall and smash her chin on a great slab of stone.

Acting on some instinct, Fenris jerked forward on one knee and threw his arms out. One hand managed to grasp Hawke’s shoulder, preventing her painful impact.

The other landed on the altar.

✷


	3. Chapter 3

Thoughts of anger, mocking… concern… died before they’d had a chance to live. There was no time for speech, for even a scant blink, for the moment his hand fell upon the stone, the world turned to chaos.

The clang of his gauntlet on the rock was an earthquake in his head, shaking his vision enough to turn the wide eyes before him into a streak of olive green. At the same moment, power – needle sharp – raced up his arm; a hot wire being threaded through his veins–

_And it was heading towards his brainstem._

The panic did not last long. The wire point was already there – but when it exploded, he was not the only one who screamed.

_Hawke could feel this too._

There was movement and yelling around them, but Fenris could have been underwater for all the sense it made. There was only this coursing, stinging power and Hawke’s terrified face.

The burn finally reached the farthest reaches of his – _their_ – toes and fingers, and it flared, causing a concurrent gasp.

Whether it was the pain or magic, it was impossible to know, but white light flashed before his eyes – Hawke’s too, maybe – and then the burn was retracting, rushing back the way it came. The tendrils pulled in on themselves, unifying into a node of heat at the base of his skull.

The node shot down his arm, not disappearing back into the stone, but resting to pulse at his wrist.

There was a moment, like standing in a storm’s eye, when Fenris was afforded the opportunity to appreciate the way his heart was pounding, and the way Hawke was struggling as much as him to draw breath –

Then his wrist gave a final pulse, as hot and agonizing as though it had been run through with a fire iron, and he was no longer able to appreciate anything.

The storm had swept him away.

✷

This was not the Fade as Fenris knew.

His dreams were usually of Tevinter, a far less pleasant scene than this foreign place. He was standing at the edge of a small, fenced field, not much larger than the house at its front; it had recently been ploughed, the soil dark and moist underfoot.

The colours were not quite right, of course, and beyond this little field, it was hard to discern what was hill and what was house, what was tree and what was man. This was simply the way of the Fade.

What was really peculiar was that Fenris could recognise this as a dream at all – even if he couldn’t remember falling asleep, or what had happened prior to that moment.

In the centre of the plot stood a scarecrow, and observing it with a thoughtful finger to her lips was–

“Hawke?”

She whipped around, the modest farming dress she wore skimming along the upturned dirt. Her hair was different here as well. It was still bound – it was always bound – but less smoothly; a soft bundle at the nape of her neck, not all bunched in place by that barrette.

It annoyed Fenris that he should notice such a thing.

“What are you doing here?” she exclaimed, her hands brushing over her skirts in what could, intriguingly, only be described as self-conscious.

“I am no mage,” Fenris drawled, leaning against the fence, “You tell me.”

Hawke frowned up into the scarecrow’s face. “I don’t know. This isn’t my usual dream.”

“Oh?”

A Fade wind blew through the yard, ruffling her fringe. “I’m not usually alone.”

“I am here, am I not?”

“You don’t count.”

“A mutual sentiment.”

Of course, Hawke had not meant her statement as a direct insult, and so he felt a sliver of regret at his prickliness. If his words wounded, he could not tell. It was never Hawke’s preference to get into arguments if she could help it, even if that meant taking a jab. This was something with which Fenris had ample experience – and which often left him feeling cheated.

“I meant that my family is usually here,” she corrected cheerfully, poking one of the mismatched buttons on the scarecrow’s vest, “In fact, Papa and Carver should be organising seed pouches right where you’re standing.”

It occurred to Fenris then that he was intruding upon a very personal part of Hawke’s mind. In fairness though, he had no idea as to how he was even in this place.

He also had to wonder how Hawke could be _here_ , could speak of her lost family, and sound so peaceful.

“Perhaps it is _because_ I am here that the dream has changed,” he suggested, reining in some of his hostility.

“Hmm,” she stopped prodding the stuffed man and spun on her heel to face Fenris properly, a twinkle in her eyes, “Then you owe me a rhubarb tartlet, Serah; my mother would have been out here any second with a fresh platter.”

Despite himself, Fenris could not stop the breath of laughter that escaped his lips.

Hawke smiled warmly and turned back to the scarecrow.

“A fair trade, I think,” she muttered.

Before Fenris could ask what she had meant by that, the sky began to darken. It was not a storm, but more as though the whole land had been cast into shadow.

“Ah,” Hawke said, looking up to the sky, “I think it’s time to go.”

✷

“ _Varric! She’s waking!”_

_“The elf is stirring too!”_

_“Hawke? Hawke, can you hear me?”_

_“Open your eyes, you broody bastard._ ”

It was dark, the dream pulsing dimly in the void.

Flashes of rich soil between his toes, Hawke’s knot of golden hair, something… to do with… rhubarb… It was fading, shrinking away with each word that boomed behind the darkness.

“ _Andraste’s arse, we’re never getting off this mountain.”_

 _“That’s not very nice, Varric; his brain could be mush for all you know._ ”

This was… this was Sundermount. They had come here for those flowers.

Yes. That was right… Those damned flowers, and _that damned witch_ who just couldn’t leave well enough alone.

Groaning through his aching and anger, Fenris opened his eyes. Bright sunshine stabbed down at him and he threw up an arm, cursing freely.

“There you go,” Varric’s voice came from somewhere to his right, “I knew you had it in you.”

“Where is–” Fenris cleared away the croak in his throat, “ _Where is that idiot mage?_ ”

“I’m right here, Fenris,” Merrill chirruped.

“He doesn’t mean you, Daisy.”

There was a groan to mirror his own, the sound to his immediate right. Fenris found the strength to prop up on one elbow, though even that simple movement threatened to crack his head open like an egg.

“Idiot mage, at your service,” Hawke mumbled with a wave of her hand. She was lying on her back, shielding her eyes with a forearm. They were still in the clearing, though he and Hawke had been dragged to one side of the altar. A nagging part of Fenris said to check the woman for injuries – but it was not so loud as the part which said to add a few more.

“Look, Fenris?” she sighed, voice weary and non-committal, “I think it’s fair to say I’ve learned my lesson. I’m sorry, I was bad, I won’t do it again, etcetera etcetera.”

“Your sincerity is a great comfort!” he spat, fuming.

A pause.

“… At least I got those flowers.”

If Varric hadn’t placed a sturdy grip on Fenris’ shoulder then, it was likely that Hawke would have found herself with a hand in her chest.

“ _Futos, abborae tea,_ ” he snarled, shaking Varric away, “Get up mage, we are leaving.”

✷

 

No one spoke again until they were out of those blasted ruins. Hawke was the first, of course, sounding as chipper as though they had all just enjoyed a picnic.

“Ok, I’m just going to ask the obvious question here,” she spun around to walk backwards, hands clasped behind her back, “ _What_ , in the name of the Maker’s glorious, hand-combed chest hair, _just happened?_ ”

“ _You_ happened,” Fenris snapped, “And watch where you are going.”

She merely rolled her eyes and then looked expectantly at Merrill.

“I don’t know exactly,” the blood mage said, her eyes raptly following Hawke’s feet, “There is still a lot of power in the ruins and I think it simply reacted to your magic. I’ve seen worse happen in such places, don’t worry.”

“Like Tamlen and the _eluvian_.”

“Yes, I– I suppose he counts… There have been many more incidents though,” she diverted away from the subject of the Dalish boy, “I recall a rather nasty one involving a human scout and an ancient halla burial ground.”

Varric raised an eyebrow. “Did I just hear ‘ancient’ and ‘burial ground’? Throw a busty spirit and alliterating chapter titles into the story and I might just have to marry you, Daisy.”

“Ignore him, Merrill. What happened?”

Fenris sighed. “ _Rock._ ”

Hawke peered over her shoulder and skirted around a small boulder. “Thanks. Merrill?”

Idiot woman.

“Well,” the little Dalish began, “The halla buried there had all been killed by poachers, see; set upon as they were being led to water. The humans murdered the shepherd and the herd, cut off the poor creatures’ hooves and horns, and left their bodies for the clan to find.”

“That’s abhorrent!” Hawke cried, and having a secret affinity for the halla, Fenris was inclined to agree.

Not that he would ever admit that he’d actually listened to this tale.

“Many years later, a human scout stumbled across the burial site… wait, I’m getting ahead of myself,” she shook her head as though trying to dislodge a cobweb, “I suppose I should first explain our tradition. Among the Dalish, it is customary to remove the horns from fallen halla and craft them into something beautiful as a token of honour.”

“Ah, let me guess,” Varric interrupted, “The gravesite was full of restless spirits? Angry, hornless halla ghosts?”

Merrill turned her huge eyes on the dwarf. “How did you know?”

“Please, stories are my business,” he said as he inspected his nails, “Now, this human…”

“No, I don’t want to tell it now,” Merrill sulked. Hawke lifted her face to the clouds, trying to hide her amusement.

“Oh, come on Daisy, don’t be like that.”

“You’ve ruined it,” the blood mage huffed, “What’s the point in finishing?”

“I’m sure you tell it very well.”

“So? I might as well not tell it at all–”

“ _Venhedis_ , just finish the story!” Fenris snapped.

It was all he could do not to cringe as three sets of eyes zeroed in.

The outburst had - _obviously_ \- only come from a desire to end the tedious conversation, not a desire to hear the rest of the tale. And yet, Hawke positively _sparkled_ with glee.

“I think you’d better finish, Merrill,” she teased, “or Fenris might have a tantrum.”

“ _Not another word_.”

“Come now, there’s no shame in–”

“ _Enough!_ ”

She let it go, but continued to exude a happy dopiness women usually reserved for small animals and pretty dresses. It made his face burn like a beacon.

Merrill darted between them uncertainly, “Should I, um, continue…?”

“Of course, go right ahead,” Hawke said, finally spinning around to walk like a normal person.

“I… well, alright… let’s see...” Merrill hummed in thought, “Oh yes. The human scout I mentioned slept too close to the burial ground of the hornless, hoof-less halla, and when he woke, his hands, feet and ears had started to rot away.”

“ _Ew._ ”

“Eventually, they fell off, and unable to move, the human lay there until he died from infection. A wandering clan found the body some weeks later, though its rotted parts had been taken by the halla spirits.” She deferred to Varric, “I’m finished; do I say ‘The End’ now?”

“If it makes you happy, sweetheart.”

“The End!”

Given how many curses, hauntings and bizarre artefacts the Dalish had left in their wake over the years, Fenris conceded that he and Hawke were lucky to leave that clearing with nothing more drastic than a couple of headaches.

Not that they should have been injured _at all_ , though.

With that in mind, he glared into the back of Hawke’s head, cursing her curiosity and cursing her magic.

And cursing the way he couldn’t stop staring at the sunlight in her hair.

✷


	4. Chapter 4

“I’m _so_ glad to be home,” Hawke heaved as they dragged their feet through Lowtown, “Kirkwall, you wonderful little cesspool.”

There was a murmur of agreement. This place, for all its filth and corruption, had their baths and their beds. That might as well have made it the Golden City.

Having already lost time that morning – apparently Fenris and Hawke had been unconscious for nearly an hour – the party had only stopped for one rest during their descent.

Perhaps due to the vast horde of undead they’d killed on the way up, they encountered very little incident on the way down – always a lone corpse or skeleton, dispatched by Bianca or a flick of Hawke’s wrist before Fenris could even unclasp his sword.

He and Hawke had barely spoken a word to each other the whole trek, which, whilst possessing its own breed of tension, did allow Fenris’ temper to calm. It also prevented any delays which might have occurred from further arguing.

All in all, they had made it to the base in excellent time. The sun was high in the sky as they had walked through the Dalish camp, which meant that, with haste, they were able to reach the city just as twilight was falling.

Merrill parted ways first, blithering thanks and apologies whilst Hawke embraced her, the elf not stopping until she’d been spun around and nudged down that first alienage step. As always, Hawke simply took the blood mage’s _eccentricities_ in her stride. It was how she approached all of her friendships… even with Fenris; though their little world of antagonism could hardly be called a friendship.

Varric was next to bid his farewells, the dwarf half-collapsing against the rusted doors of _The Hanged Man_. After a quick kiss to Hawke’s hand and a nod to Fenris, he stumbled into the pub and didn’t look back.

Which left Hawke and Fenris.

…Alone.

Walking in the same direction.

…Alone.

“ _So_ ,” Hawke pipped as they ascended the steps into dusky Hightown, “It’s a real nice night for an evening.”

Fenris frowned, even more so when he noticed the sideways smile Hawke was giving. “What?”

“I just thought I’d make this a bit more awkward,” she explained merrily, picking up the skirt of her robes, “Seemed to work when Aveline said it… Want a marigold?”

“Must you _always_ make things worse?”

The woman was incapable of keeping her mouth shut. There was always a last laugh, or a jibe, or – worst of all – a higher ground.

The mirth in Hawke’s face dissolved, and for all that he complained, there was no satisfaction in seeing this bland expression.

She gave a long sigh. “I can’t help that you choose to see things that way, Fenris.”

It was not in his capacity to apologize or even make small talk, so, as they usually did when they weren’t bickering, they fell back into silence. The walk to Hawke’s estate was uncomfortable but mercifully short.

“Alright then,” she unlocked the front door and turned to him, managing a gracious smile, “Thank you very much for your assistance on Sundermount, and for inadvertently walking me home, I suppose.”

The fluctuation in her demeanour was unbalancing; as was the sincerity of her appreciation.

Simplicity was always best when faced with confusion, so he only nodded and said, “Goodnight, Hawke.”

She smiled less formally and disappeared into the manor.

The door closed behind Hawke with a soft click, and Fenris frowned, confused by the odd pang he felt when all he’d wanted for two days was to be free of the woman. This wasn’t the first time he’d felt this way, either, which just made it all the more perplexing.

He turned his back on the door at the same time he noticed Hawke’s shadow shift at the crack at its base, a hand combing through his hair in frustration. It was time to go home, drink some wine and sleep until this day was well and truly over.

Of course, life was very seldom that simple.

This was a truth that made itself known with acute force, when, after taking a single step forward, Fenris became overwhelmed with pain.

✷

This made the Sundermount incident seem like a hot bath and a shoulder rub (not that Fenris had ever actually _experienced_ a shoulder rub).

Every muscle in his body spasmed, the sensation akin to each one being twisted and stretched simultaneously. There was no way to stand against this agony, and so it pushed him to his knees, his bones grinding together like there was no longer any cartilage in between.

This was a pain without equal. It was ripping him apart at every socket. Even the pathways of his lyrium had become seams, more stitches splitting open with each passing second.

The emptied Hightown streets echoed with his uncontrolled cries, and since this was Kirkwall, absolutely _nobody_ would dare venture outside to inspect.

Nobody, except…

With a lurch of pain that made him want to empty his stomach, Fenris turned around on his knees.

 _Hawke_ would help. No matter what, Hawke wouldn’t leave him like this.

One knee shuffled forward, the scrape like glass shards on his skin. Another knee forward and he was in the alcove of the manor door.

The pain should have knocked him out by now, but it was merciless. Through the haze of tearing and shattering, Fenris became aware of a commotion occurring on the other side of the door.

Someone was close; in the entrance room! All they needed to do was hear him–

The door flew open, and suddenly Hightown was no longer rattling with just Fenris’ cries.

Mere feet from the threshold, past the manservant who had frozen at the door, Hawke was lying on the ground – and her body was contorted with pain that looked as violent as his own. Her eyes were enormous, their colour bright but glazed, and as soon as they caught Fenris’, he knew what would stop this.

As though reading his mind, Hawke stretched out a hand, her arm shaking so hard that the woman might have been having a seizure.

 _They needed to get to each other._

Fenris tried to move, but those few seconds of stillness had allowed his limbs to seize. The pain was too great, and he groaned brokenly, the sound a fist in his skull.

Salvation came in the way of a strong arm around his waist – the manservant’s, he realised – which dragged him up and onto the threshold.

And just like that, the pain began to recede.

As fast as a finger snap, the banging in his head dulled to a tap. The grinding of his bones became an ache. The wrench of his muscles became a pinch.

Not only _his_ screaming had ceased, either. Hawke’s eyes fluttered and she let out a gush of air, as her pain also began to fade. With some help from Bodahn, Fenris was able to throw himself over the mansion’s threshold, and from there, he was dragged to Hawke’s side.

The pain dissipated like a dying rain.

He collapsed, no longer in agony but shaking with its memory. His entire being felt like a fresh scar – oversensitive and fragile to touch. At his right, Hawke’s contracted form began to unfurl. She was facing the other direction now, but the quaking of her back was evidence enough that her breathing was struggling to level. The only visible skin was that of her neck, and just as with Fenris’, it was prickled with sweat.

For a moment, before the ability to think had quite returned, he felt the lurching urge to reach out and touch that small, shuddering body.

But then thought did return, and instead, he rasped – _“What did you do, mage?”_

✷


	5. Chapter 5

“Milady, should I still send for Master Anders?” came Bodahn’s fretful voice.

Hawke was attempting to sit up, the shake in her shoulders as she pushed up on her hands twinging that tiny, concerned part of Fenris again. It was just a reflex born of unfamiliarity, no doubt. It was rare to see Artemis Hawke in such distress, after all.

“N-no. I think I– we – are alright now.”

That was yet to be seen.

Fenris followed her lead and managed to sit, an arm slumping across his bent knee. The cool stone of the entrance room floor had been especially soothing, but his insides were still unsettled like he’d recently been ill.

A high-pitched whimper stabbed his ears. At the threshold of the living area was Hawke’s mabari, Claymore, who would be slobbering all over his recovering mistress right now if not for the death grip Bodahn’s son had on his neck.

“Get Feather Man!” the boy insisted, face fraught with worry. The dog barked its agreement.

Hawke managed a weary laugh. “I’m fine, Sandal. How about you take Claymore and help Orana with supper?”

Without a nod or word, the boy was off, the dog bounding at his heels.

“Are you sure you are well, milady?” Bodahn was wringing his hands, looking warily upon the two dishevelled figures sitting in the middle of the entrance room.

“I’ve certainly been better,” she answered, cheer returning, “I’m sure I’ll live, though. Now, if you’ll give me a moment, I need to speak with the elf currently glaring into the back of my head.”

After a half-bow, Bodahn left the entrance room.

With the rustle of robes, Hawke shuffled around on her knees until she was facing Fenris properly. It was behaviour hardly fitting of a noble - but then neither was adventuring, wearing drab, colourless clothes or visiting Lowtown taverns.

Resting back on her heels, her mouth bunched to one side as she chewed on her thoughts.

“That was new.”

The ways he could kill this woman.

“ _That is all you have to say?_ ”

It seemed that her good humour was not as sturdy as usual, for it swiftly turned to exasperation. She crossed her arms defensively.

“What am I supposed to say?”

“This is clearly not _my_ doing, Hawke.”

“You are just– Maker, you are just _impossible!_ ” she clapped both palms over her face, her head shaking, “I don’t know what just… wait, what is… _huh?_ ”

The muffled rant trailed off. She pulled her hands back slightly, eyes now blinking dumbly as they focussed on the right wrist.

This woman’s sense came and went more often than the tides.

“What are you doing _now?_ ”

She ignored him and smoothed down some more of her sleeve. Her eyes widened, darted to Fenris, then returned to the wrist.

“Uh oh.”

That did wonders for his temper.

“What do you mea–”

His words turned into an indignant fumble as his right wrist was suddenly seized by Hawke, jerking his whole body forward. Respect for boundaries was never really one of the woman’s greater virtues, but this was a new level of rudeness.

He tried to whip his hand back, but Hawke’s grip only tightened. She was turning the appendage over, inspecting the workings of his gauntlet.

“ _Release_ me, you–”

“Shut up and help me get this off!”

The idiot began tugging furiously at the straps. With a harsh exhale, he began to undo the buckles, if only to stop this insane mage from snapping them clean away.

Hawke’s fingers were more a hindrance than anything, but she refused to be dissuaded, awkwardly pulling at whatever she could touch. After a series of clicks and rattles, the gauntlet came loose. A tug and it was clattering on the ground.

The sound echoed as much in Fenris’ head as anywhere else.

“Oh _no_ ,” Hawke breathed, sagging back onto her heels.

Fenris grit his teeth, breath coming unevenly out of his nose as he drilled daggers down into his newly exposed wrist. “What. Is. _That?_ ”

Emblazoned on his skin, dominating even the lyrium beneath, was an all-too-familiar symbol – two mirrored crescent moons, one full in colour, the other empty. It was identical to the altar glyph, but for its size and it being black instead of gold – and the fact that _it was on his wrist_.

Faced with his question and anger, Hawke smiled nervously. “A new tattoo for your collection?”

Right now. He could just reach forward and crush her heart right now.

“It is not a collection, you fool-tongued witch!”

“If it helps, I have one too.”

“ _That_ is your great comfort? That we _match?_ ”

She looked away, thumb curving downward as she worried the nail. However unintentional, whatever was happening here was her fault.

“You will _fix_ this,” he said with clear warning.

Hawke sighed and released her thumb nail. “Let us first determine what exactly needs to be fixed.”

Mindful of the heavy robes bunched underneath her legs, she stumbled to her feet. The helping hand she extended to Fenris was immediately swatted away.

“Right,” she mumbled as he stood on his own, “You’d probably just have to bathe yourself in holy water.”

The living area was warm and orange from the lit fire, its many surfaces devoid of the traditional noble trappings, littered instead with papers, enchantments, and alchemical equipment – if it was not already common knowledge that the Amell scion was an apostate, one glimpse of this room would have revealed all.

It was empty here for once as well, all the bustle emanating from behind a closed door between the study and the staircase. Though he had never been inside, Fenris knew it to be the kitchen.

As they entered the study, the door closing heavily behind them, he realised that this was the first time in a long while that he had been inside Hawke’s estate without another of her companions present.

For someone who made great efforts to avoid arguments, Hawke visited him in his mansion quite frequently. He’d stopped questioning her motivations over the years, concluding that they must merely come from a sense of obligation. Though the exchanges always began civilly, they inevitably deteriorated, more often than not ending with someone slamming a door. For that reason, Fenris felt no desire to reciprocate the home calls.

“Just a moment,” she murmured, crouching before the cold hearth and removing the grate. As she began transferring split wood from the adjacent log box, he silently inspected the bureau.

The study had the same ‘organised clutter’ of the living area, though the clutter here consisted of far more knick-knacks. Not garish vases or statuettes or tapestries, but knick-knacks; tawdry but clearly sentimental in ways that Fenris couldn’t know – a chipped mug pilfered from _The Hanged Man_ , a wreath of dried flowers, and a red scarf with purple markings were just among those he could immediately see.

There was the impulse to ask about their meaning, to touch them even, but Fenris squashed the mad whim. This was not a social visit, and there was no reason he should care at all for Hawke’s past. Further still, he was not ready to be distracted from his anger.

A snap of the mage’s fingers and the fireplace was blazing. Though not particularly cold, the now-set sun meant that they would certainly need the light. She dusted her hands on her robes – the black cloth already filthy from the two days spent on Sundermount – and stood once more.

The room was silent but for the spitting fire and the murmur of conversation coming from the kitchen parallel.

“Ok,” Hawke began with a clap of her hands, “We know the _when_ and _where_ , which leaves us the _why, how_ and _what_.”

“What?”

“And the why and how.”

“No,” Fenris pinched the bridge of his nose, “What are you talking about?”

“ _These_ ,” Hawke flicked her wrist, letting the sleeve droop. The tattoo was a shiny black, darker than any skin inking Fenris had ever seen. It had no bleeding either, the colours perfectly contained.

“We _know_ how it happened,” he accused, glancing down at his own marking.

Hawke merely tilted her head, “Do we? Explain it to me.”

“I am not your student, do not speak to me as such.”

“Forgive me,” she laughed, her eyes darting briefly to the red and purple scarf sitting atop the mantel. “My point is, all we really know is that you and I both touched something magical. I’d say it’s also a fair assumption that said magical item was never intended to do… whatever it has done.”

The softening in her demeanour threw him for a loop. Not only that, but how fluidly she fell into the role of teacher. Curiosity flared, and this time, it was harder to extinguish.

“Fine,” he shook his head once to clear the fancy, “What _has_ it done?”

Hawke held her wrist up to the firelight, a thoughtful expression on her face as she inspected the marking. “What indeed.”

An ominous silence fell. Hawke sighed and let her arm drop.

“I think you suspect the same thing I do.”

Panic-flavoured anger spurted up his throat. “I have no idea what you mean.”

“Fenris, you know it’s a possibility.”

“Absolutely _not_ ,” he growled, clinging to denial, “I have heard enough of your nonsense.”

There was no way these markings could work like… like _that_. It was not possible, it was too awful to even imagine. The incident in the entrance room had been a fluke, a magical anomaly.

Muscles fuelled by hysteria, he spun around to leave.

“Fenris!” Hawke gasped, “No, don’t–”

The victory he felt at conquering those first two steps without consequence disintegrated when he took his third.

They both hissed and doubled over.

Pain sluiced through their bodies, and whilst not crippling, it was still enough to make Fenris want to snuff out all the lights and vomit in a corner.

 _No_ , he thought wildly, _no, this was not real._

“Sweet… Maker’s… _Fenris_ …” Hawke rasped from behind, “ _Please_ … come _back_.”

The plea rattled him, but not enough.

This was not happening. He _would_ be free of this house.

He took another step.

And that broke the dam.

Pain flooded their bodies, knocking them to the ground and threatening to spill out onto the floor in an endless gush of blood and soul. They were screaming together, minds exploding at the same time. This was a union of every torture imaginable, bones snapping whilst flesh sizzled and organs bruised.

Simultaneously, they cried out and flung themselves forward, desperate to escape this agony.

They landed with only an arm’s length between them, a pair of gasping, quivering bodies barely able to stay on their hands and knees.

There was a clattering from the kitchen and a scurry of footsteps.

“Ok…” Hawke panted, keeling over onto her side, “That’s… the… _‘what’_.”

The study door burst open, three voices crying out in unison.

 _“Milady!” “Mistress!” “Enchantment!”_

The servants rushed into the room and immediately began fussing over the mage. Thudding footfalls meant that the mabari was approaching fast; and indeed, Fenris rolled away just as Claymore came barrelling through.

“I’m fine, I’m j– _oof_ ,” Hawke had barely been helped into a sit when she was thrown back down by the beast.

“ _Claymore!_ ” Orana squeaked, throwing her thin arms around the dog’s midsection. It merely whined and continued to crush Hawke’s lungs with its giant paws.

“Pup… _ow_ … diet… time…”

“Oh dear,” Bodahn flustered, adding his own arms to the meaty torso. Their efforts to dissuade the now-slobbering mabari from accidentally suffocating its mistress were somewhat nullified by the way Sandal was happily petting its head. Possibly, Fenris could have done something more to aid the situation than merely lean against the hearth with his arms folded, but he was not feeling particularly magnanimous at that moment.

With a mournful whimper, Claymore was dragged away.

Before she could be assaulted once more, Hawke propped herself up against the other side of the hearth and placed an exhausted hand over the dog’s muzzle, letting him snuffle her palm.

“Good boy,” she puffed, “Thank you for not killing me.”

The mabari stopped struggling against the servants, and they tentatively released. Sandal, continuing with his streak of distinct unhelpfulness, merely clapped.

“Are you alright, Mistress?” Orana scrunched her hands into her skirts, “Can I get you or your guest anything?”

“Perhaps it is time to call for Master Anders,” Bodahn entreated. That idea, surprisingly, made Hawke cringe.

“No no, that won’t be necessary. Fenris and I are having a bit of a… situation, you see, and I’d rather not disturb anyone with it just yet.”

They finally agreed on something in this mess.

“If you’re… sure, milady.”

“Very, thank you,” Hawke smiled, energy returning, “Please inform us when supper is ready, Orana.”

That was a kind but clear dismissal, and the servants – ushering the dog with three pairs of hands – departed.

There was a maelstrom of things Fenris wanted to say to Hawke right now, to do to Hawke. This 'situation', as she had put it, was straight out of a nightmare.

He could hardly wrap his head around it all.

They each sat at one side of the hearth, the air thick and terribly weighted between them. Denial had abandoned Fenris, and the reality was slowly seeping into his bones like ice water.

When Hawke spoke, it was quietly, and in a voice devoid of any lightness. The uncharacteristic graveness was as troubling as the actual words.

“It started to hurt when you reached the edge of the rug.”

Fenris could scarcely think with the way his heart had begun to hammer.

“I was right at the other edge,” she continued, lolling her head against the stone to meet his gaze, her eyes a shimmer of jade and gold in the firelight, “Which makes approximately six feet.”

The words reverberated in his head like a thunder crack.

They stared into each other as the dreadful truth of the matter descended. It was a rare moment of unity, the blame and resentment muting as they simply struggled to accept what was happening.

“Six feet,” Fenris tested the words.

Hawke nodded, slow and resolute.

“Six feet.”

✷


	6. Chapter 6

It was a joke of divine origin, that, of all the people in Thedas, Fenris had been magically bound to Artemis Hawke. Not even two hours together and he was fantasizing about throwing her into the fire - if only so it would stop that mouth from running.

They’d needed to be sure that the tattoos and this invisible tether were the only magical surprises they could expect; it was not something either had wished to explore.

“ _Better to sprout horns and a tail now than in the middle of a crowded street_ ,” Hawke had reasoned, “ _Or during a battle. Or…_ Maker _, in the Gallows; Cullen would be all over us with the smiting…_ ”

She’d trailed off after that, muttering one horrible scenario after another with morbid enthusiasm. When the woman had eventually shut up, they began to experiment.

They tried anything they could think of that might trigger a reaction.

They pressed their markings together, pressed them to other parts of their own skin, pressed them to each other’s skin.

Fenris attempted to ‘activate’ the tattoo in the same manner that he did his lyrium, but only succeeded in glowing and feeling like an absolute idiot. Hawke attempted something similar, using the call of her magic as a comparison, but again, to no result.

They tried stupid things, such as saying each other’s names and saying their own names – and, in one humiliating, never-to-be-mentioned-again case, recited random old _Elvhen_ they could recall through their association with Merrill.

The final test was to expose the markings to magic. Arguing was unreasonable given the magnitude of the situation, but that didn’t stop Fenris from trying. Priority did eventually prevail, but again, nothing happened.

Finally, they were able to conclude fairly confidently, that their only (“ _only_ ”) problems were the ones with which they were already familiar.

“And so concludes Plans J, K and L,” Hawke announced, hands on her hips. Indeed, they had well and truly exhausted their imagination.

Fenris resisted the urge to rub his wrist; the magic was still trickling through the lyrium. It wasn’t painful - in fact, Hawke’s energy had actually been surprisingly… gentle… - but there was something about her touch lingering on him that was unsettling.

“ _Please_ ,” he drawled with even more sarcasm than usual, “enlighten me with your next brilliant course of action.”

“Merrill, obviously.”

“Your plan is Merrill?”

“… Obviously.”

He exhaled sharply, trying and failing to find a shred of patience. “There is nothing obvious to _anything_ you say. What benefit could their possibly be to bringing that demoness into this disaster?”

“Don’t be cruel,” Hawke tutted, arms crossing, “And you’re well aware of why we need to go to Merrill. It was that altar which did this to us; _ergo_ , Dalish magic is at work; _ergo_ , we need magical Dalish assistance. I am exactly two pointy ears and a bitter heritage short of actually being Dalish.”

“ _Fine_ , enough,” he conceded; then mumbled, “Just stop saying ‘ergo’.”

“I do not intend to give up the reins completely, if it makes any difference," she said, "I have some texts I’d like to consult. Though... they can wait, I think.”

“For _what?_ " he burst, "What could _possibly_ be more pressing right now?”

Her eyes twinkled in the firelight. “A bath.”

It was probable that this magical mishap had killed some of the woman’s already-limited sense.

“A bath?”

“Mhmm,” she murmured wistfully, “We’re both still covered in Sundermount. I don’t know about you, but I think better when I don’t smell like undead viscera.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Fenris snapped, ears warming, “How are we possibly going to bathe under these circumstances?”

“We’ll simply have to take turns sitting outside the bathroom door.”

The idea of having to sit there and listen to Hawke bathe made the heat in his face flare badly enough to dizzy. Even if he wouldn't be able to see, he would be able to _hear_... he would _know_...

“No,” he said unhelpfully, “That’s ridiculous.”

Hawke snorted. “So, what? We just stay disgusting? Pray that it rains so we can run outside and roll around a bit?”

“You are _insufferable_.”

“I am not the one being difficult here. Now come on; whether you want one or not, _I_ am having a bath.”

It was infuriating that he had no choice but to follow.

Whilst the idea of getting rid of the filth still caked to his body was appealing, bathing with Hawke waiting _literally_ just outside the door was a mile outside his comfort zone.

She led him out of the study and up the stairs to the immediate left. As they were crossing the landing, Fenris was hit bit by a fairly obvious fact he had failed to acknowledge until now – they were heading to Hawke’s bedchamber.

“Wait,” he said suddenly, no plan in mind at all. Hawke paused just as they were passing the Amell crest and spun around with a quizzical look.

“This is…” Fenris could not quite meet her eyes, “This is completely inappropriate.”

That had her brows shooting upward. It bothered him that she would consider him lacking a basic sense of propriety.

“Fenris,” she said, not unkindly, “With any luck, we’ll wake up tomorrow and this will all have been a funny little dream. Right now though, we’re stuck, we stink, and those two factors mean that we both need to go into my bedchamber.”

He rubbed his eye with the heel of his palm. She _would_ refer to this ordeal as funny.

“Very well,” he sighed, and followed her inside.

The room was warm, both in temperature and atmosphere, though its homeliness didn’t come as a particular surprise. Whilst most aspects of Hawke’s personality deferred to the side of annoying, her unwillingness to trade her common roots for a mask of nobility was certainly not one of them.

The hearth already had a fire crackling, washing everything in gold and creating dim shadows. As with the study, there were trinkets all over the place, including a lute by the fireplace (though Hawke had never mentioned a talent for playing the instrument), a scattering of jewellery atop the mantel (some charred or tarnished, others distinctly masculine), and even what appeared to be an ogre horn perched up against the little desk to the right.

The large, four-poster bed was of the same red and gold that coloured most of the room’s décor, from the gilded closet by the bed head to the plush rug under their feet to the curtains drawn over what Fenris knew to be the balcony window. The furnishings betrayed the mage’s wealth, but even so, he was fairly certain that she hadn’t chosen them personally – Hawke wouldn’t have chosen red. She’d have chosen blue or green, or maybe white.

“Would you like to go first?”

Hawke’s voice smacked his wandering thoughts back into place, and he felt a rush of embarrassment that he’d been so casually fixing her room in his mind.

No, not fixing. One didn’t fix things that didn’t matter to them.

“No, I’ll wait.”

“Suit yourself,” she said and went to her closet. Fenris trailed just enough to keep within six feet.

She fingered through the clothing for a moment – her wardrobe far smaller than the average noblewoman’s – before pulling out a long, sky blue nightdress.

Ha! _Blue_. He knew it.

“Hmm,” she murmured, staring at the gown.

Fenris tried to shake his insane thoughts of colours and décor. “What now?”

“It’s nothing… really…” she turned with a smile, the nightdress swishing, “I’m, uh, just going to hang this behind the privacy screen in the corner. You’ll have to shut your eyes when I walk out of the bathroom though.”

Fresh heat might have risen to Fenris’ cheeks at that notion – if not for how he had become utterly distracted by the heat rising to _Hawke’s_ cheeks.

She was _embarrassed_.

There was a certain appeal to seeing her flustered like this, and he could not help but drink in the sight. To be fair, despite her wayward tongue and infamous lack of tact, she’d never been a _vulgar_ person at all. Perhaps he had been too rash in his assessment that Hawke was unaffected by this awkward arrangement.

That was almost comforting.

Fenris merely nodded and followed her to the elaborate gold privacy screen which sectioned off a corner of the room. She hung her nightclothes, moved to the door which sat between her bed and the screen, and there the pair of them paused in a moment of pure discomfort.

“So, uh,” she tried to sound light, though she was fiddling with the neck of her robes, “just make yourself at home… on the ground there… that should keep us within six feet, I think.”

Spirits help him, he was blushing again.

“Get to it,” he half-groaned, rubbing his temples.

“Right,” she swallowed, “Though… if you don’t mind… my body could really use a nice, long one.”

A nice, long… _what!?_

A _bath_ , his mind screamed, she only meant a _bath_. It was unforgivable how quickly his mind had fallen to the gutter and scooped up a very _different_ meaning to her statement.

“I’m all _tense_ ; a short one’s not going to satisfy me at all,” she said with a frown, and Fenris forgot how to make his lungs works, “And look at me. Do I look as dirty as I feel…”

 _That is a trap, don’t look._

“…I feel so dirty. I can’t wait to get out of these clothes and–”

“ _Just go_ ,” Fenris strained, his mind breaking underneath the pile of debauched images.

 _Vatara sancta_ , what new glimpse of the Void was this?

“ _Fine_ ,” Hawke clucked and reached behind for the handle, “I’ll try not to drip on you when I’m done.”

 _I’ll try not to_ … this was no glimpse, this was the Void.

Fenris released a breath as soon as the door latched, sure that his soul was damned for the extent of his depravity.

Though he wanted nothing more than to escape this house and never look back, he had no choice but to sit down and lean right up against that bathroom door.

His blood hadn’t quite stopped whirring in his ears just yet, and the situation wasn’t helped when he heard the rush of water. It was too easy for his mind to construct a scene.

This woman was, apparently, more oblivious than Merrill.

The water eventually stopped running, and even with the thick wood between them, Fenris could clearly hear the gentle splashes when Hawke settled into the tub. Steam seeped from underneath the door, moistening the hand that he had resting next to his thigh.

And it was then that the reality coiled in his abdomen – Hawke was naked in the next room. Hawke was naked and wet and hot.

… And just moaned.

Fenris seriously considered taking the pain and making a run for it. It was far too warm in here; his ears might very well be on fire. This was so very wrong. This was _Hawke_ , and these thoughts were disrupting the fragile equilibrium of hate and tolerance he’d established over the years.

Not only that, but Aveline would have Fenris whipped if she knew he was sitting here.

Ah, that helped.

Beatings, even imaginary ones, had quite the sobering effect.

For the next quarter hour, or three hours, or age, Fenris sat there focussing on the innumerable physical torments that Aveline was capable of inflicting. It perhaps worked too well, for when Hawke finally spoke, he nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Fenris?”

He flopped his head back against the wood. “I am still here… unsurprisingly.”

“I know that,” she huffed, the splashing as she vacated the tub drowning her voice some, “I’m coming out, can you please move to the side and shut your eyes?”

There was the sucking sound of draining water – which was the exact sensation in his stomach right now – and then a patter of footsteps.

“Are you close to the door?” he asked.

“Yes, we’ll still be in range if you move.”

Quickly, for fear that Hawke would simply rush out and destroy Fenris’ mind forever, he scooted to the left, away from the door frame, and shut his eyes.

“It’s safe,” he grumbled, more to himself than anyone.

The door opened with a gush of steam against his side.

“Good,” Hawke said cheerfully, her voice and footsteps passing him, “I was getting cold.”

Her aroma was fresh and strong, lingering where she walked and having an unintended calming effect.

Hawke had a smooth scent. It wasn’t sharp like the strawberries which were unique to Aveline, and was nothing so musky as Isabela’s… well… musk. For as long as he’d known her, Hawke had smelled, strangely enough, of something close to clotted cream.

Remembering her statement about stinking of viscera – yes, this was comparatively much better.

“I’m behind the screen, you can open your eyes.”

Keeping his lids at a cautionary level, he confirmed that Hawke was indeed hidden before opening them fully.

“I emptied the bath, since the water was foul by the time I’d finished,” she said from behind the screen, “Even if you’d been alright with using my bathwater, it probably wouldn’t have been safe. I’m surprised it didn’t eat right through the tub.”

That triggered a thought that should have occurred earlier. “My armor is filthy,” he said, “I have no clothes here.”

“I didn’t realise you _had_ clothes.”

“Of course I have clothes,” he snapped. There had to be a way to crush someone to death with a privacy screen.

“Alright alright, settle down,” she teased, “I’m sure I have something you can wear.”

“I’m afraid that frills irritate my skin.”

Hawke laughed resonantly, the sound humming down Fenris’ back as it usually did. “I’ll keep that in mind. Also, nothing orange, it just wouldn’t work for you.”

He barely smothered the small smirk that tried to break loose.

“All done. Now let’s find you some clothes,” she said, stepping out from the privacy screen.

The nightdress was, in the same moment, more modest than Hawke’s mage robes and far less so. It covered her completely, from the base of her neck to her wrists to her feet. It hugged nothing, merely draped to the floor. But… there was something about it that had Fenris’ eyes roaming of their own volition. It could have been that the material was far thinner than that of her robes, or maybe it was the way the light blue looked against her pale skin and damp, golden hair (the latter already bound once more).

Or maybe, it was because sitting in a woman’s bedchamber and viewing her in nightclothes usually suggested something far different than what was happening here.

If Hawke noticed him staring she didn’t say anything, merely beckoned with her hand for Fenris to come closer, and then walked with him to the large, aged trunk sitting at the foot of the bed.

Arms crossed, leaning against one of the bedposts, he watched as she crouched and unlatched the trunk. Up close, she looked and smelled so _clean_ that he was starting to feel envious. After some careful rearranging of boxes and papers, Hawke pulled out a neat pile of clothing. Tripping slightly on the hem of the long nightgown, she stood, holding the garments out to Fenris with a broad smile.

“No frills,” she said triumphantly.

Curious, he took the bundle. It looked to be a plain, cream house shirt and a pair of brown breeches. They were definitely masculine.

Five years and he’d never once seen Hawke with a man. That didn’t necessarily mean she hadn’t taken… lovers… without his knowledge; though, he’d never actually considered that until now. The image refused to form properly in his head.

Hawke must have realised what Fenris was thinking, for she followed up with – “Carver’s.”

Oh.

Not a lover at all then, but a lost brother. That made much more sense.

He felt like he should say something – maybe wanted to even, for Carver had been a good man – but Fenris was utterly unequipped when it came to such matters.

“I don’t–” he cleared his dry throat and tried again, looking down at the clothing instead of Hawke’s face, “Thank you, but I could not.”

She reached out and caressed the folded material, humming nostalgically.

“He often wore these when he trained; I have them laundered regularly,” she said softly, “I know time will turn them to nothing eventually, but I do what I can to delay the inevitable.”

The tips of her fingers brushed Fenris’ and his skin tingled all the way up his arm.

“I think I’d like to see someone get some use out of them again.”

Fenris lifted his face to find her watching him, her expression nothing but earnest.

It seemed a significant concession, allowing someone to wear this keepsake of her brother. It should have been an _impossible_ concession for her to even consider allowing Fenris to be this person. It was as though she’d momentarily forgotten their long, barbed history.

A distant, buried flicker of sadness in her gaze had him wondering if there were more clothes in that trunk. Possibly, there were dresses which had once belonged to Bethany, the sister who was only a name to those now around Hawke.

Maybe her father had also left some trinket behind, and it was now sitting amongst that secret clutter - that is, if Hawke had been able to retrieve _anything_ before the Blight had swallowed her home.

And most certainly, there would still be some of Lady Leandra’s belongings in the adjacent room… if not all of them.

The gravity of this woman’s loss pulled him in even as he tried to stand his ground. Though his own weakness frustrated him, Fenris knew that - whatever his animosity - he would accept these clothes and accept them graciously.

“Thank you,” he said, and whilst not particularly poetic, Hawke’s eyes glittered brightly enough to blind.

This _sympathy_ in his gut was not something Fenris wished to dwell upon, so he straightened his posture and took a tiny step backwards. A bath was starting to sound like a good idea, if only for the façade of solitude it would provide.

He placed the garments on a little stool behind the screen and offered Hawke a curt nod before disappearing into the bathroom.

It was only a small chamber; just large enough to fit the essential facilities and a side table to hold the washing materials, a drying cloth and a single lantern. Even so, it was fortunate that the tub was fixed to the centre of the room and not the far wall; otherwise, he and Hawke would probably be just out of range.

He did not relish the idea of bathing in the same room.

Though the colour was obscured by the lantern’s dim light, the walls appeared to be pale green with gold trimming, which made Fenris wonder if the room had been added at Hawke’s request; it didn’t match the rest of the house at all.

Thankful that the new piping system had been installed, Fenris plugged the drain and set the water running; he’d have hated to ask the servants to refill the tub for him.

A wicker basket in the corner held Hawke’s soiled clothing, and as he stared at the mess of cloth, it was difficult not to get swept away in the sea of surrealism that was this night. That stubborn part of him that was still in denial yelled “ _this is not right_ ” before reason beat it back down.

He removed his armor, pausing only to lower the pumps once the bath was full, and stacked it in a neat pile just next to the hamper…

Which left him standing in Artemis Hawke’s bathroom, in front of Artemis Hawke’s bath, completely naked.

A yawn muffled through the door… oh yes, with Artemis Hawke sitting just outside.

He’d have sooner thought to find himself back in Tevinter.

He scrubbed his face with his palm and sighed, then stepped into the water.

Glorious heat scurried upward, raising the flesh that hadn’t even yet been submerged. The sensation dumbed his objections, and he lowered fully. It felt as though the water was bubbling around him, such was the force of the tingling in his skin. The muscle ache he’d been ignoring flared and began to calm in a single moment.

For several minutes, Fenris simply soaked. This was not his tub though and he couldn’t stay here, so he eventually slid up to a more practical position and grabbed the soap from the side table.

“I’m bored.”

Hawke’s voice made him start and drop the soap in the water. He cursed and fumbled around.

“That is not my problem,” he barked.

“We could just talk.”

Fenris barely resisted the urge to hurl the newly-acquired bar at the door. “I am trying to bathe.”

“You can’t do both at the same time?”

“That is not the point!”

Hawke went silent. This woman was going to make him drown himself in her bathtub.

He exhaled his frustration and began to scrub away the dirt, sweat, and general filth of Sundermount.

“Don’t forget behind your ears.”

“ _Deis clemo!_ ” Fenris exclaimed, jerking his arm out of the water to gesture at a door, “I know how to bathe!”

“I’m just trying to help,” she said, not at all put off.

“ _Don’t_.”

“I figured that elves need extra reminding about washing behind their ears,” Hawke continued merrily, “You have a lot more ear after all.”

He spoke through gritted teeth, trying to concentrate on his wash. “Do not concern yourself with my ears.”

Fenris worked a lather between his hands then let the soap drop back into the water. His fingers combed through his hair with enough tension to sting the roots.

“Does it hurt when you bathe?”

The question stilled his movements. “What are you talking about?”

“Your _markings_ ,” she said, far too casually, “Are they irritated by the soap? Or maybe the scrubbing?”

No and yes.

“That is not your business,” he muttered, resuming his ministrations.

Ignorant or immune to his brashness, Hawke chattered throughout his entire bath. It didn’t matter if Fenris replied or not, the woman wouldn’t shut up.

“Move and shut your eyes,” he grumbled after some time, the water rocking and splashing as he emerged.

He pulled the plug and dried his body hastily as he stepped closer to the door.

A rustle of cloth signalled Hawke’s movements. “Ready!”

Fenris rubbed the linen over his hair a final time, threw it into the hamper, and then glared at the door. “If your eyes are open even a sliver, I will rip out your heart and leave it for your dog to find.”

“How dramatic. Come on, my eyes are very much closed.”

✷


	7. Chapter 7

Once Fenris was dry and dressed, Hawke decided it was probably prudent to apprise the household staff of their unique predicament. Everyone was still in the kitchen, Sandal patting the dog awkwardly while it dozed in the corner by the pantry, and Bodahn assisting Orana with the less vital aspects of her cooking.

Far too conditioned to the bizarre world of their mistress, no one batted an eye at Fenris and Hawke’s mutual state of underdress, neither did they seem really as horrified as Fenris would have expected when the situation was explained.

Bodahn was distressed but eager to help how he could, though his numerous suggestions to call for the abomination’s aid went unheeded. By the way his eyes darted anxiously between Fenris and Hawke, he was mostly unhappy with this potential insult to his lady’s modesty -

The day Artemis Hawke’s modesty was marred by Fenris would be the same day he invited everyone to his manor for a dinner party.

Orana had a much milder reaction, bypassing shock completely and heading straight for quiet concern – after all, far worse could be witnessed when one lived under the roof of a Tevinter witch. That he could so easily understand the elf girl’s collectedness disturbed Fenris, and he was relieved to be out of the kitchen and away from those big, haunted eyes.

Not long after they had settled in the study, the tiny servant brought their food and placed it on the floor between him and Hawke, realising her mistress’s intention to eat whilst she researched.

It was _stew._

Not that suspicious grey concoction of mystery meat that was served at _The Hanged Man_ (which Fenris ate with startling regularity), but real stew; a hearty mixture of braised beef, broth-soaked bread pieces, and fresh vegetables.

This was a proper, home-cooked meal, and he realised – while still only staring at the dish in his hands – that he hadn’t had one since Aveline’s Name Day supper. And before that… he couldn’t even remember.

The sound his stomach made would have been impossible for Hawke to miss in the silent study, but she made no remark, simply spooned another chunk of beef into her mouth and continued to scan the text lying in her lap.

They ate in silence, for which Fenris was grateful, as a true meal was something that he wanted to savour properly, no matter the surrounding circumstances. It could have simply been that Hawke was engrossed in her book, but Fenris had to wonder if her sudden reticence indicated an awareness of this fact.

Though they said nothing, he found his gaze flicking to Hawke, sometimes catching her eye as she sneaked a glance of her own. In those moments though, she would just smile mysteriously and return to her reading.

More than once, he found her not staring at his face, but at his clothes – the cuffs that kept slipping down over his hands regardless of how many times they were folded back, the neck that was a bit too wide, the trouser hems that draped across half his feet even as he sat with his knees up.

For an elf, Fenris was very tall, nearly as tall as Carver had been. But his musculature was different, and so the clothes hung loosely. His unfamiliarity with wearing such garments also added to his overall discomfort. Unfitted clothing like this shifted constantly against his markings – which was one reason why he favoured tight armor; and, usually, wore very little when alone.

It was understandable, all in all, why he’d emerged from the privacy screen expecting to be mocked.

But Hawke had merely given him a long look he hadn’t been able to interpret, and then announced her intention to speak with the staff.

His meal finished (sadly), Fenris placed the bowl back onto the tray, glad for the full stomach and the fire crackling at his back – even if these could have been better conditions.

Hawke was appraising him again.

Warily, he asked, “What are you looking at?”

She leaned forward and placed her own empty bowl next to Fenris’, her expression serene. Her eyes caught his for a half-second before she retreated back to her book.

“I like seeing you like this, is all,” she said quietly, focussed on the text.

The admission, however cryptic, made his stomach do an odd flip. As though anticipating his next question and wanting to avoid it, she changed the subject.

“As expected, I haven’t found anything that might help us,” she turned the page, “But I’ll read a while longer, just in case.”

His inability to assist in this regard was salt in an old wound.

“I would like to tend to my armor then.” He hoped his bitterness hadn’t seeped into his tone.

With a nod, Hawke jingled the brass handbell Orana had left on the platter.

“Orana will clean your leathers– don’t give me that look, she knows what she’s doing – but I’ll ask her to bring down your metal bits and, if we have any, some armor… stuff.”

“Metal bits and armor stuff?”

“Anything more technical and my little mage head starts to spin.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Your brother was a warrior.”

“Yes,” she dropped her chin into a palm and looked at him, “and he had no more idea how birch and mahogany differed in spirit energy conductivity, than I had about what that long groove in his blade was called.”

“The fuller,” he said automatically.

Before either could appreciate that Hawke’s magic had been mentioned with something close to civility, the study door opened. It was Orana, and after receiving instructions, she gathered the dishes and went back on her way.

✷

They spent another full hour in the study before Sundermount, the time, and the stress of the evening could no longer be denied. With a promise to the servants that Hawke would fix the mess herself tomorrow, she and Fenris left the books and armor materials on the rug, and made a weary trudge up to the bedchamber. Recognising that his mistress was about to retire, Claymore left his post at the living area fireplace to trot at their heels.

It wasn’t until they were actually in the room, standing before the bed, when they realised this new challenge.

Behind them, the mabari _wuffed_ , which Fenris decided to interpret as laughter.

Hawke placed one hand on her hip, the other covering her mouth as she studied the bed. Her eyes slid sideways to Fenris and then back again.

“I… suppose we’ll–”

“ _I will take the floor_ ,” Fenris exclaimed, unable to stop the heat rising in his cheeks.

 _Wuff._

Shut up, dog.

“It’s a big bed, Fenris,” Hawke argued, if a bit breathlessly.

“It is a big _floor_ ,” he crossed his arms, “I fail to see your point.”

“You _can’t_ sleep on the floor.”

“Well I am certainly not sleeping in the same bed as you,” he kept his gaze firmly averted, “There has to be a line somewhere in this lunacy.”

“ _Fine_ , if you find the idea that repulsive,” she marched to the nearest edge of the bed and tore the cover clean off, a pillow toppling onto the ground, “then I _insist_ you take the floor.”

She threw the heavy doona partway between the bed and fireplace, then slid the fallen pillow closer to the puffy heap with a quick swipe of her foot. The brashness of her actions was unbalancing.

“I don’t need your bedding!”

She glared at him as she clapped her hands, stoking the waning fire with her magic. “The correct response is ‘thank you’, you ungrateful git.”

 _Wuff._

“This is childish; you have left yourself with only a sheet.”

“Don’t speak to _me_ about being childish. And I’m Ferelden, I don’t need the blanket. Now hurry up and get over here so that I don’t explode our heads by getting into bed.”

Noting that they were indeed nearly out of range, he reluctantly did so.

Fenris felt more confused than ever as he lowered to the cushiony nest, fairly certain that by getting his way he’d somehow lost this argument.

Claymore padded over and whined at the elf.

“What?”

“You’re in his spot,” Hawke said accusingly from the bed, and then gave a sharp whistle through her teeth, “Over here boy, you’ll have to sleep on the other side.”

Another whine and then Claymore stalked away morosely.

Sleeping on the floor was nothing new to Fenris; it was how he spent all of his nights. This wasn’t _his_ floor though, and as he desperately didn’t want to be here, it was unlikely that he could expect to rest easily.

After a fair degree of fidgeting, both he and Hawke became still.

Excellent. More awkwardness.

“Goodnight, I suppose,” Hawke muttered.

Fenris turned his head from the ceiling to stare into the wall. The comfortable duvet around his body, the slide of his tunic (however _un_ comfortable), and the dejectedness in Hawke’s tone all niggled persistently at his gut.

Oh to already be unconscious.

“Goodnight,” he bit the inside of his cheek as he said this next part, “… and thank you.”

✷


	8. Chapter 8

Even as a slave, Fenris had experienced gentler wake-up calls.

During the night, Hawke had rolled to the side of the bed on which she, undoubtedly, naturally slept. So, when she woke, and recent events had not quite pervaded the morning fog in her brain, she emerged from the bed on the side farthest from Fenris.

It would have been a short step from there to trigger the chaos that ensued.

Worse than all of Hawke’s perky, sing-song _‘up and at ‘ems’_ combined, was the agony that burst inside Fenris’ sleeping head. Dreams and comfort were swallowed by convulsive pain before the mugginess of waking had even a chance to clear – it was like being flung head-first out of the Fade into a stone wall covered in spikes.

He tried to get onto his knees, to roll closer, to even let the pain contort his body – _but something was weighing him down._

This pain was so much worse than it had been – literally _suffocating_ him. The world was a haze of splitting skin and burning lungs and _so much noise_.

 _He_ was yelling, _Hawke_ was yelling, and now _Claymore_ was howling – and, _Vatara_ , he was so close it hurt – and it was the _dog_ he realised, the _dog_ was sitting on his chest, _breaking his chest_ , and–

There was a cry from the other side of the room. A sliver of a second later and the roar of his body became a hush.

Without the agony gripping his muscles and mind, Fenris was able to remember how to suck in air. His attempts had little luck however, as there was still a tremendous weight on his lungs. Something huge and wet was prodding at his face, and he wheezed, forcing his eyes open and bringing one hand up to push the mabari’s head away.

“ _Off_ ,” he gasped, pushing the whimpering dog harder. Claymore barked indignantly – possibly cracking Fenris’ skull with the sound – before finally backing away.

Fenris took a deep, ragged breath, and was fairly certain that his organs had been bruised. Hawke must have moved back within range whilst he was battling the dog, as the _other_ pain was ebbing fast - though it left a sickly residue.

“ _Oops_ ,” came her breathless voice from somewhere atop the bed.

He dropped a sweaty palm over his eyes, feeling some new combination of drugged, sore, and angry. Clammy from the moisture on his skin and the suddenness of his rousing, Fenris kicked the doona away. The fire had long died, leaving the air blessedly cool and sharp.

“Um... Fenris?” Hawke asked tentatively, when he still hadn’t replied, “Are you... ok?”

If pillows had any heft to them, Fenris might have thrown his at her. “No, you half-wit!”

He uncovered his eyes and propped up on one elbow. Hawke was only partially on the bed, having clearly been unable to pull herself any closer with the pain. Claymore was nuzzling her side.

“It was an _accident_ ,” she complained, and crawled up onto the mattress.

“ _As was your birth_.”

Hawke shuffled to the safe side of the bed with as much dignity as possible whilst sporting a knot of bed hair and pursed lips. “You are such a _grouch_ in the morning.”

“I am not the one who stepped outside the boundary a moment ago,” he sat up and chucked his pillow onto the bed, then added petulantly, “And your mutt was lying on me.”

“I did say that you were sleeping in his spot.”

“ _So it is my fault!?_ ”

She sprang to her feet and whipped up Fenris’ doona. “Well, if you think about it, none of this would have happened if you’d just slept in the bed.”

He drew a deep, unsteady breath as he rose to his feet, and muttered, “I would chop off my arm if it meant getting away from you.”

“Of that I have no doubt,” Hawke dumped the doona onto the bed, “but now is not the time for sulking. Let’s just forget this happened, get dressed and go see Merrill.”

Visiting the blood mage was surely going to improve his mood.

“But first,” she continued, “I have a small issue that needs addressing.”

That didn’t sound promising. “Such as?”

“I need to use the privy.”

“So?”

That hardly compared to last night’s bathing fiasco.

She seemed put out at having to explain. “So, the privy is too far from the bathroom door for you to wait outside, and I don’t want you to… you know… _hear._ ”

“I do not know what you expect me to do then.”

“Well, I don’t know either,” she chewed her lip, “Maybe if… _wait!_ ”

With dizzying speed, Hawke spun around to her closet, crouched, and opened the drawer at its base. She rummaged through its contents furiously, eventually cried _‘aha!’_ , and popped back up with a pair of earmuffs clutched in her hand.

It was official, the mage had been hit by one too many gas flasks.

“You do not honestly expect me to wear those?”

“It’s brilliant!” she waved the earmuffs excitedly, “We’ll call them… _Privy Pads!_ ”

“No. We won’t.”

“Let’s go, gloomy; time to try out these bad boys!”

✷

 

After concluding that yes, the earmuffs worked (meaning that Fenris would be stuck using the things for however long the tether held), tending to their morning ablutions, and getting dressed (each on one side of the privacy screen), he and Hawke met the servants for breakfast.

The dining room came off the study (the latter of which had been tidied despite Hawke’s assurances last night), and was much lighter than the rest of the house. It was pale green and gold like Hawke’s bathroom, had arched windows inset at regular intervals at the top of the walls, and morning sunshine filtered in, glinting off the silverware and creating a glare on the white tablecloth.

Orana and Bodahn bustled in and out with dishes, Sandal helping only with that which couldn’t spill or scald. As it struck an unpleasant chord of familiarity, Fenris would have preferred to not have people wait on him – Orana in particular, whose past was just a different shade of his own.

He was startled out of his sullenness however, when, after placing the final plate of sweet rolls on the table, the servants took seats like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The sight was both so very wrong and so very right. Eating with servants, treating them like _equals_ , was not the way of things.

But it should have been.

Around him, everyone had begun to pile their plates, and any approval he’d felt for Hawke's non-conservative dining practices was promptly brushed away; replaced by irritation as she, quite presumptuously, began to pile _his_ plate.

It never did take her long to remind him of his antipathy.

“… and a few more of these… Orana, please pass that – thank you… one of those–”

“I am more than capable of serving my own food!” Fenris objected. Orana and Sandal both winced at his tone.

Brilliant. He’d just frightened an ex-slave and a touched boy; there was probably a special corner of the Void waiting for men like that. There was, additionally, a whine from the meaty head lying on his foot – that lung-crushing _beast_ , for whatever reason, had taken to following Fenris around.

Hawke merely winked, put down the plate of rolls, and said, “All done.”

His dish would certainly crack underneath the gargantuan breakfast it was forced to bear – a mountain of baked berries, a potato cake, three boiled eggs and two sweet rolls.

“Are you quite certain?” he ground out, ears and indignation aflame, “Or should I wait for you cut my food into small pieces?”

In an imploring tone, Bodahn said from one end of the table, “Mistress Hawke doesn’t mean any disrespect, Messere.”

Encouraged by his father’s input, Sandal – at Fenris’ opposite – nodded insistently, a hesitant smile tugging at his cheeks. Orana just stared at her lap with that same nervous expression.

Quite of their own accord, Fenris’ lips pulled into a thin line. All of his usual conversational tactics fizzled away as his eyes darted from dwarf to elf to dwarf... as he realised that he had absolutely no idea how to speak to these people.

These were just innocent strangers eating their breakfast. They were - even with their individual oddities - so very _normal_.

Fenris didn't know what to do with normal.

Determined to escape his chagrin and confusion, he stuck into his meal.

As with supper, the food was fantastic; fantastic enough that he was blessedly distracted from his discomfort a bit more with every bite - its flavours were made all the better due to the sawdust and gruel Fenris had been previously surviving on.

Anticipated or not, Hawke’s coddling had spared him the internal dilemma of deciding whether he should return for additional servings. Likely, his pride would not have allowed him to re-pile his plate, for it could have sent the message that he was glad to be here – which he was _not_. As she had already ladled him with enough food to stretch between three breakfasts however, there was no need to go back for more.

The meal continued with relative painlessness – at least until he could no longer ignore the mabari that had been slobbering on his thigh for the past half hour.

Claymore loosed a whine more pathetic than his last, his head bouncing on Fenris’ leg like he was trying to tap for attention.

“What is it now?” he complained down at those melancholic eyes, shifting his thigh in the hopes of dislodging the mutt – with no success.

“He wants a treat, obviously,” Hawke said absently over her goblet of juice.

“ _Tch_ ,” he scoffed down at the dog, “Reward him after his earlier behaviour? I think not.”

The dog whimpered and flopped more fully on his lap, his nose now nudging Fenris’ other thigh. The animal looked _grief-stricken._

It would not move Fenris. This was for its own good.

In an urging voice that made it clear that he was speaking to Fenris and not the dog, Sandal said, “ _Nice_ doggy.”

“Now now, Sandal,” Bodahn attempted to mollify, “Master Fenris is only trying to teach Claymore some discipline.”

“Oh, go on and give the dog a berry,” Hawke said teasingly, invading his personal space by bumping his shoulder, “He’ll go away if you do.”

“Yes! Nice doggy!”

“Sandal, I _told_ you that Master Fenris–”

Fenris cut them all off with a harsh exhale and picked up a raspberry, wishing only for peace.

If it would stop the boy’s insistences, his father’s failing attempts at diplomacy, Hawke from _touching_ Fenris again, and wipe that ridiculous wounded expression off Claymore’s face – _he’d give the dog a stupid berry._

He scowled at the beast and prepared to throw the treat onto the floor. “Take this and go away–”

“ _Wait!_ ”

Berry still in his fingers, he whipped his head up in surprise, for it was Orana who had squeaked the objection. Shrinking under this scrutiny, her wide, massive eyes shot down to her plate as she continued in a quavering voice, “He… likes the blueberries.”

To his left, Hawke chuckled, dropping her elbow on the table and her head into a palm to watch the scene.

And Fenris was suddenly very, very uncomfortable again.

Everyone was speaking to him. He realised that like it was something that one _should_ realise.

It was only a trivial discussion - telling him to feed the dog or _how_ to feed the dog or speaking with each other about why he _shouldn’t_ feed the dog. It was the kind of fuss that one would not recall in ten years’ time, for it was so insignificant. It was only one of many juvenile conflicts which, he imagined, occurred during the day-to-day life of a household.

And that was the real issue.

Fenris was not a part of this household. This wasn't his pet drooling on his lap, this wasn't his dining room, they weren't his servants and this breakfast wasn't his routine.

This was not his world - he didn't even know its name - and yet he was being treated like a native.

It was too much for his mind to grasp.

Without a word, he swapped his raspberry for a blueberry, fed the hound, and spent the rest of the meal fervently hoping that no one would speak to him again.

✷


	9. Chapter 9

Hightown was already busying, but the early risers were mostly of the district’s labour class, its noble population still fast asleep in warm, comfortable beds. Merchants, gardeners and sweepers were at work in the streets, with the occasional servant scurrying by with a case of fruit they’d retrieved from the docks.

“Ooh, green apples,” Hawke observed as they passed one such servant, “The Cumberland orchards must have finally controlled that cedar rust problem.”

“I prefer red,” Fenris said without thought (the early hour was surely at fault).

Dodging a particularly unobservant messenger boy, the grey drape of her monkish robes swishing about, she countered, “You claim that without having tried the green ones in Orana’s apple and sweet potato pudding.”

 _Sodomet_ , that did sound appealing.

Since escaping Tevinter, he had discovered a weakness for good food and good drink (though he would never admit to either). Orana's cooking was already becoming disturbingly addictive.

They were nearly at the market steps when a familiar voice froze them in their tracks.

Of course, guards were the _other_ citizens out on the town at this hour. It would have been too much to expect of the heavens that he and Hawke be spared an encounter with _this_ one.

The Guard-Captain wore the morning well, her step quick and her face bright, devoid of any dark rings or sallowness that might betray her tiredness. The brilliant orange of her hair seemed especially vibrant in the early light. Fenris was usually glad to see her, but this was not one of those times.

It had been agreed that, until they knew more, the tether would remain a secret. Sharing the information was an invitation for mockery or irrational disapproval, not to mention it would increase the risk of the wrong people overhearing.

“Morning, Aveline,” Hawke greeted brightly, unperturbed by the thick layers of plate as she embraced the Captain.

“Artemis…” Her eyes slid to Fenris - whose spine had become steel - as she pulled away from the hug. “And Fenris…?”

The antagonism he shared with Hawke was infamous amongst their social group. Walking through Hightown together at an obscure hour was, therefore, horribly conspicuous.

“Aveline,” he grunted, lips tight.

“I was on my way to Lowtown when I bumped into Fenris,” Hawke explained vaguely, reaching behind to unnecessarily straighten her barrette – a tell she usually reserved for bad Wicked Grace hands.

“Is there a problem in Lowtown?”

“Oh no!” she laughed too exuberantly and waved her hand, “Merrill and I, um, must have mixed up some of our things back on Sundermount. I just wanted to make an exchange.”

“This early?” the Captain crossed her arms, eyebrows shooting upward, “It must be important.”

“Oh, er, sort of. Magical stuff. You know…”

The lie was already unravelling. This was why the woman always lost at cards.

Aveline changed angles, knowing from experience how to unbalance a hoax. “What about you, Fenris?”

“ _Hanged Man_ ,” he said automatically, but at the disapproving expression he received (it was only morning, after all), hastily added, “I’m meeting a contact about a mercenary job.”

“Yes. That,” Hawke concurred unconvincingly, “And you, Aveline? I guess you’re out thwarting evil, rescuing damsels?”

At least she had enough sense to change the subject.

“Ha! You know the damsels won’t be up from their beauty sleep for at least another hour,” she sighed, nibbling at the gambit, “Until then it’s mostly just shooing drunks off the street.”

“That’s not how Varric tells it.”

Hawke was far better at swaying a conversation than lying through one. It was something he’d never noticed before, so clearly she didn’t lie very often - the thought nearly wrought his face into a frown.

Aveline snorted. “It never is. Half the patrons at _The Hanged Man_ think I use a whip to train the men.”

“And that your hair is orange from all the raw egg yolks you drink, don’t forget that one,” Hawke teased.

“Maker, that dwarf needs a good beating.”

“He’d probably be able to talk you out of it.”

“If I gave him that chance.” Aveline looked to her right, “Ah, I’m being waved. Look, I have to go, Artemis, but I’m glad to see you made it back from Sundermount in one piece. You too, Fenris.”

And with a tap to Hawke’s shoulder, a nod for Fenris, and a final suspicious sweep of both of them, the Guard-Captain was off.

Once they were in the markets and well out of earshot, Fenris drawled, “You are a poor liar.”

All of the merchant stalls had been uncovered now, the clerks now rearranging displays or taking inventory. Several offered their greetings to the Lady Amell as they passed through. Mostly, they just glanced at Fenris nervously.

“You sound surprised,” she replied, descending the steps into Lowtown.

Indeed, but probably not in the way she assumed. Nothing over the years had alluded to Artemis Hawke being in possession of a dishonest streak, and he was unsure why, given that evidence, he’d been convinced of just the opposite.

He was mostly surprised with himself.

✷

Many elves were already awake and about, setting up dingy stalls in the alienage, relighting the _vhenadahl_ candles or simply tidying their squalor of a square. The activity was unwelcome, for Fenris would have much preferred that no one witness him willingly entering the blood mage’s home.

“Merrill?” Hawke called through the door, rapping the wood again.

A woman who was hanging beaded necklaces on the hooks of a nearby stall glanced at the visitors curiously. There was nothing suspicious in her gaze and so Fenris stopped glaring, struggling to get a grip on his paranoia.

He hissed, “If she does not answer in the next few seconds–”

“You’ll knock down the door and brood all over Merrill’s floor, I _know_ ,” Hawke said in exasperation, knocking again, “Just give it a– wait, I think I hear her.”

There was a frantic scurrying from inside, followed by a crash and a muffled squeak, followed by more frantic scurrying, before the door was finally flung open by a fully-dressed but dishevelled Merrill.

“I’m sorry!” she panted, “I didn’t hear the door!”

Hawke was far more amused than Fenris, and reached forward to fix the scarf that had somehow become hooked on one of Merrill’s ears. “Were you sleeping in your robes?”

“No. Well, yes, but not intentionally. I dozed off in front of the _eluvian_ again. Actually," she frowned, "I think the _arulin’holm_ may have rolled underneath my bed.”

Hawke laughed. “Just be glad you didn’t stab yourself with it in your sleep.”

“I _am_ ; it really hurt the first time,” she paused and blinked at the pair on her doorstep, “Did you and Fenris just come to visit? Does he no longer hate me?”

“No. I still hate you.”

“I thought so,” she chirped, turning back to Hawke, “Then can I help you with something?”

Hawke slid Fenris an annoyingly surreptitious look - like she was convinced he would erupt like a volcano at any moment. “I certainly hope so.”

The girl stepped out of the way to let them pass. The shack was filthy, which did nothing to assuage Fenris' skepticism about Merrill's reliability. Currently, their hope lay in the hands of, not just a blood mage, but one who was so scatterbrained that she had books in the basin.

“I’m very sorry about the mess," she declared, "I do try to tidy, but I get so bored that I wind up daydreaming and sweeping the same spot for an hour.”

In which case, they should expect her to have solved their tether problem in approximately a decade.

“Merrill, Merrill, Merrill,” Hawke chanted airily, walking inside and scanning the mess of dirty dishes, books, clothing, and knick knacks, “if you can fix our little problem, Fenris and I will clean your house for a _month_.”

“ _I will not!_ ” he objected, face whipping to the fool woman - who was, of course, paying him no heed.

“Ooh,” Merrill closed the door and joined them in the living area, “It must be quite a pickle if Fenris is willing to clean my house.”

“ _I’m not._ ”

“A pickle it most certainly is.” Still completely ignoring Fenris' ire, Hawke shucked up the sleeve of her robe and held up her wrist like in oath. The glossy tattoo made his lip curl, and he unconsciously flexed the wrist which held his own.

The Dalish, however, looked delighted.

“That’s _very_ pretty," she breathed, "Funny, it looks an awful lot like the symbol from the _an’ravi_ altar on Sundermount.”

“It _is_ the symbol, you half-brained bint!” Fenris burst.

 _This_ was their mighty saviour.

“What he _meant_ to say,” Hawke gave him a chastising look that did nothing to intimidate, “is that he also possesses this symbol, and that it was the altar itself which undoubtedly gave them to us.”

No, Fenris was fairly certain he had meant to call Merrill a half-brained bint.

“That’s odd. Do they do anything?”

“You could say that. We’re… unable to move more than six feet away from each other.”

Merrill’s eyes widened to lunar proportions. “You're stuck to _Fenris?_ Are you alright?”

His sound of indignation was lost in Hawke’s snort of amusement. It was not _Fenris_ who couldn't shut up or be serious, and it certainly wasn't _Hawke_ who had woken this morning to a giant dog lying on her chest.

This was now a nightmare within a nightmare.

“He hasn’t killed me yet,” she sounded far too cheerful given the circumstances, “but I suspect only because he fears having to drag my corpse around for eternity.”

✷

After making the blood mage swear discretion, Fenris and Hawke (mostly Hawke) explained the situation in its entirety. The girl - who had accepted their circumstances as easily as though she heard such a tale everyday - had requested a demonstration of exactly what happened when the six feet boundary was breached, but she was met with adamant refusal from both parties.

They’d already had their insides rearranged once today, after all.

When the few Dalish spells Merrill tried produced no results, she dove into research. Most of the text was written in elven, both old and new, and so Hawke was unable to assist; left to suffer the same frustration that Fenris had experienced the previous night during her own study session. In fact, some of the text was even Tevinter, which meant that, with the occasional translation request from Merrill, Fenris was actually _more_ helpful this time.

They stayed couped up in that shack for hours. With nothing to actively keep them occupied, Hawke (who he had already realised after one night was incapable of sitting still) initiated a premature payment of her promise and began tidying Merrill’s home.

Tired of just following the woman around, Fenris was reluctantly roped in – and again, he felt as though he was actually trapped in some elaborate delusion. He was helping _Hawke_ clean _Merrill’s_ house. He didn’t even clean his _own_ mansion.

Fenris was placing books on a shelf while Hawke scrubbed the dining table behind him, when a knock at the door made them both pause.

“I’m coming in, Daisy.”

 _Varric._

In a panic, Fenris tried to shove the rest of the books into the shelf in one go, only a couple of them staying put whilst most of them tumbled to the floor. At the same time, Hawke must have released the scrubbing brush with unnecessary force, for he heard it tumble across the table top before it rolled right off.

So, when Varric stepped inside, he was met with the only _marginally_ less bizarre picture of Hawke and Fenris standing stiffly amidst a pile of books, whilst Merrill lay in the middle of the room reading.

“Hello Varric,” Merrill greeted happily from the floor, crossed ankles swinging to and fro behind her.

“Hello there… Daisy…” he hadn’t quite made it past the entrance alcove yet, rooted by the unlikely sight they all made, “I see you have company.”

There was an implied question in there.

“Oh yes. I’ve been helping them–”

“ _Look for things!_ ” Hawke squeaked, “Fenris and I lost some things on Sundermount and they– they might be here. Merrill’s been helping us look for them.”

Fantastic, _that_ story again. They were doomed.

Varric raised a brow. “Are you being metaphysical or am I missing something, Hawke? From here, it looks like Daisy’s lying on the floor.”

Hawke cleared her throat. “Yes.”

“To which question?”

Instead of burying his face in his palm like he wanted, Fenris interceded. “The girl was only in the way. She is assisting our search by keeping still.”

“And you and _Hawke_ came here together?” Varric had that look in his eye as he crossed the room – that look that meant he’d just found inspiration for a new story. Merrill merely returned to her reading as the dwarf skirted around.

“Yep, a happy coincidence,” Hawke said, and there she went with the barrette-fiddling.

It was common knowledge that the dwarf frequently brought Merrill groceries; presumably, this was one such visit, if the basket he’d just placed on the table was any indication.

He gave them a sly smile. “Tell me what you’re looking for and I’ll give you a hand. I’m an _expert_ at ferreting things out.”

Hawke laughed nervously and started to move away from the table.

“That’s not necessary, thank you,” she stumbled over one of the books Fenris had dropped, “Actually, we’re sure our things aren’t here, so we’ll just be on our way.”

“You’re heading somewhere together?”

 _“Yes.” “No.”_

Hawke and Fenris shared a frustrated look.

“Er, kind of, not really… we’re both heading to Hightown,” she amended, the flush in her cheeks not helping their case at all. There was a growing mischief, a _suggestion_ , on the dwarf’s face, and for his own sanity, Fenris didn’t dare imagine what theory he’d drawn.

“Merrill?” her voice was still doing that high-pitch thing, “Let us know if you… find anything.”

“Oh yes, I will,” Merrill beamed up as they passed.

“Bye, Varric!”

And they were out the door before the situation could possibly get any worse.

✷


	10. Chapter 10

Once they’d escaped the alienage, there was nothing to do but return to the estate. The remainder of the afternoon was spent in the study, where they meandered with books and armor, and Fenris' natural taciturnity warred hopelessly with Hawke's fondness for chatter.

The last sun rays were fading by the time they returned to Lowtown, the thick smog changing hues from sickly orange to the grey of night. It was late enough that they could walk the streets without being hindered by bustle or spruiking vendors, but not so late that the gangs would yet be out. Lowtown was never safe, but it was less dangerous at this hour.

It was Wicked Grace night that had brought them back to this wasteland.

There had been some debate about whether they should attend, but in the end, it was decided that their mutual absence would only be suspicious (especially after their earlier encounters), and would likely prompt someone to come seeking them anyway – and of course, they’d be found side by side.

If they were careful, maybe they would be able to hold onto their secret a while longer _and_ enjoy a semblance of normalcy.

They hesitated at the tarnished pub doors, light and noise pushing against the cracks as though trying to escape.

“It can’t be helped that we’ll be walking in together,” Hawke fretted for the fourth time, “I hope no one makes a fuss.”

“As long as the blood mage keeps her mouth shut, we’ll be fine.” And with an unconscious bracing of his muscles, Fenris held open one of the doors.

The smell and clamour beat into them like waves on a rock. The rusted metal swung behind them and closed with a rumble, trapping them in with the stench of dried vomit and stale ale, a sea of rowdy patrons, and one big, looming sense of dread.

Those who recognised the pair called their greetings as they wove through the crowd. Navigating the masses was made all the more difficult because of the tether; it was easy to get knocked off path or split up when the pub was this busy, and so they were forced to stay uncomfortably close - though, Hawke’s clotted cream scent was strong in such tight quarters, and it was, admittedly, a far cry better than inhaling the other aromas on offer.

At the steps leading to the second floor, they could make out their companions’ voices. With any luck, not everyone had arrived just yet; the less people who witnessed their joined entrance the better.

As they crossed the landing, they were able to determine the latest portion of some mindless conversation.

“That’s hardly abnormal,” Aveline said.

“It’s abnormal for _elves_ ,” came Merrill’s twitter, “Was he an elf?”

“I see the copper hasn’t dropped yet. He was _bald_ , pets,” Isabela was facing away from the doorway, leaning on her elbow as she engaged Aveline and Merrill, all three women sitting in their normal spots along the left side of the table, “No grass at the tree root, no moss on the mast, no bristles on the broom… are you getting this?”

“Alright, yes, that is abnormal,” Aveline conceded.

“That’s not even the best part,” Isabela took a swig from the bottle of whatever swill she’d commandeered from Corff, “The rest of him was hairier than a dwarf’s arse.”

“My rear is silky smooth, Rivaini.” Varric noticed the new arrivals from his seat at the head of the table and lounged back lazily, hands folding over his stomach, “Let me guess, another happy coincidence?”

Isabela twisted around, and Aveline and Merrill peered past the pirate to create an intimidating chain of eyes.

“Maybe take out the ‘happy’ part,” Hawke muttered, giving Fenris a sideways glance, who was already scowling at the scrutiny. It suddenly seemed very unwise for them to have come here tonight.

“My, you’re especially broody today,” Isabela proclaimed, staring at Fenris whilst she drummed the side of her bottle, “What’s got your tattoos in a twist?”

“His tattoos aren’t twisted,” Merrill pitched in, “Well, no more than usual. He just has one too many now.”

Anger skittered up his spine - not even a single minute had passed and the girl was already losing her grasp on their secret. Out of the corner of his vision, he saw Hawke unconsciously tug down the sleeve of her marked wrist.

At least she shared in his anxiety.

Varric chuckled. “One too many? I think I speak for everyone when I say: please clarify.”

“You are wasting your breath,” Fenris snapped, “Nothing she says is based in sense.”

Having realised her slip, Merrill appealed for Hawke’s forgiveness with wide, apologetic eyes. Not Fenris, but Hawke.

Typical.

After responding with an expression that was far too soft and forgiving, Hawke made for her usual seat at Varric’s left… only to stop halfway down the table. Realising the issue, Fenris cursed long and loudly inside his head about their group's unofficial assigned seating.

“Varric…” she mused, tapping a finger to her chin, “you’d say this table is, what, eight feet long?”

Because when they'd agreed to be discreet, this was _clearly_ what Fenris had had in mind! At this rate, they would not be able to keep their secret under wraps for the next five seconds, let alone the entire evening.

He could almost _justify_ beating her around the head with a chair.

“I guess…” the dwarf answered, and Merrill, who was staring skyward, was the only one who didn’t share his look of confusion, “Not to be obvious, but why do you ask?”

“No reason,” and she defied five years of tradition by plopping down in the middle seat instead – the seat that wouldn’t take her out of range. This was made even more awkward due to the fact that she was currently the only one sitting on that side; it was like going to service and sitting on the floor, even though the pews were empty.

Trying not to be overt in his exasperation, Fenris settled at the end of the table, opposite Varric.

 _Unbelievable._ Something so small and inconsequential as seating arrangement and even _this_ was an obstacle. Given the current course of things, Hawke might as well just sit in his lap, announce their secret, and be done with this dance.

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, instantly regretting the rashness of his thoughts - it was more than a little troubling how the image of Hawke in his lap sealed to the walls of his mind.

“You feeling alright, sweetie?” Isabela asked, looking at the mage like she'd grown another head.

“Of course,” she waved her hand and switched subjects, “I guess we’re just waiting for Anders now?”

Varric peered past them. “Not anymore."

They all turned to watch Anders cross the landing, and at realising this, the scrubby mage rubbed the back of his neck and smiled sheepishly. “Sorry, sorry. I was busy helping the helpless, saving gangrenous orphans and such.”

It had, apparently, been too much to hope that he'd been crushed in one of Darktown's tunnel collapses.

“Uh uh,” Varric shook his head, “You already used that excuse once this month. You’re last; go get the first round.”

“Wait,” Anders stopped at the threshold and held up both hands, “I think you might have missed the part about the orphans.”

“ _Go_ Blondie. The cards will shrivel up and die if we don’t start this game soon.”

Hawke laughed and watched the abomination walk back out, fondness all but _shimmering_ across her face.

And Fenris did _not_ like it.

“So, my darling Hawke, find anything on your tromp through the mountains?” Isabela asked, “Anything shiny you might be inclined to share?”

Swallowing the jagged rock that had formed in his throat when watching Hawke and that _thing_ , Fenris fixed his attention to the current conversation. Any talk involving that accursed hike warranted full focus.

And anything had to be better than focussing on this sudden, acidic wave of irritation.

“It’s Sundermount,” Hawke rolled her eyes, folding her arms on the table, “Anything shiny usually comes with a curse and a distinct lack of warning label.”

“Well, _that’s_ no good to me. If you’re going to leave me to go adventuring, you better bring back a present.”

“You asked to stay, moron,” Aveline retorted.

Isabela swung her arm dismissively, drink swishing around the bottle she was holding. “Nonsense, I would never pass up the chance to grave rob.”

So very glad for the distraction of her antics, Fenris arched an eyebrow and remarked, “If I remember correctly, you proclaimed that you hadn’t slept with enough people to die just yet and then disappeared for the rest of the day.”

As though trying to recall, their resident knave frowned up at the ceiling. “That does _sound_ like me.”

“It’s ok,” Hawke assured, “I couldn’t stay mad at someone so pretty.”

Aveline drawled, “Yes. What she lacks in loyalty or selflessness she makes up for in cleavage.”

“Aww, don’t be jealous, gingerlocks,” Isabela draped an arm around the Guard-Captain’s shoulder, “Maybe if you cared a little less, you’d grow some tits too.”

“It sounds like I walked in at the right moment,” Anders said from behind. His voice made a muscle in Fenris’ cheek twitch.

Varric shifted forward and snatched up the deck of cards. “It’s about time.”

“You can say that again,” Aveline shook off the pirate’s arm and then crossed her own, “I need a drink.”

“Ingrates,” the abomination groused, “ _Good evening_ Anders, _welcome back_ Anders, thank you for spending your last coin on _recycled nug piss_ , Anders.”

The man passed Fenris, and as he leaned to place the tray in the centre of the table, he turned his face to Hawke. “I see you’ve requisitioned my seat, wench.”

Her responding laughter was far too loud in Fenris’ head.

“I’m deviant like that,” she grinned so easily it made Fenris bristle inwardly, “You’ll wake up tomorrow and find I’ve pulled your bed out from under you too.”

“Trust me, it wouldn’t be much of a challenge; my cot’s a sneeze away from crumbling into twigs.” Anders settled in the closest seat, which - _happy day_ \- happened to be between Hawke and the end where Fenris sat, “How was Sundermount?”

“Profitless,” Isabela grumbled as she was reaching for a mug.

“That’s not true,” Merrill argued, “We picked a lot of _vheravi_.”

“ _The Blooming Rose_ doesn’t take flowers, kitten.”

“Oh, that reminds me!” Hawke slapped a hand to her forehead, cutting off the conversation, “I still have Sol's bundle. Darn, I forgot to deliver it today; I'll have to do that tomorrow.”

No, they would _both_ have to do that tomorrow.

Dealing out cards, Varric released a puff of laughter. “I’m surprised you remember your own name after being thrown around by that rock.”

To which their resident Dalish responded, “It was an _altar_ , Varric.”

“Wait, what happened?” Anders scanned the group with a frown, then turned back to Hawke, “Are you alright?”

It was not the most pressing issue of the moment, and though he had sense enough to realise this, Fenris was still, presently, utterly unable to concentrate beyond the fact that _the abomination had his hand on Hawke's arm._

“I’m fine,” she smiled nervously, recognising this as dangerous conversational territory, “So is Fenris. We got knocked out by some old magic, but as you can see, we survived.”

Anders appraised her for another moment before releasing that foul hand and shaking his head. “Maker’s teeth, trust you to get into trouble while picking flowers.”

After an uneasy shrug, Hawke attempted to impress a subtle end to the discussion by grabbing two drinks from the platter - one of which she placed before the abomination. Fenris pursed his lips and looked away.

He didn’t know what had come over him. He’d watched this camaraderie for years, and it had never given him this bitter taste in his mouth. This would _not_ do.

A flash of movement and clink of wood drew his attention back, and there was Hawke, reaching across Anders to place that second mug in front of Fenris.

Ruffled from his sinking thoughts, he blinked in surprise.

There was a smile back on her face, but it seemed different now; gentle. There was an extra brightness in her eye that hadn’t been there before – or maybe Fenris was just being ludicrous.

“Alright kids,” Varric called, snapping the elf from his reverie.

Ludicrous, he was just being ludicrous.

“Low stakes to start. Now, if someone could just relieve Rivaini of the ‘Angel of Death’ she’s got stashed down her dress, we’ll finally get started.”

✷


	11. Chapter 11

For a while, it looked like they would pull the evening off without drama. Hawke’s earlier behaviour had been forgotten, and apart from this fresh animosity Fenris was feeling for the abomination at his right, the card game was going very much how it always did. The familiarity of the setting did wonders to soothe the stresses of the past few days, and he found himself almost feeling like everything that had happened was a bad dream.

Until Hawke lost a round.

“Just as bloody well,” Anders pushed his cards away, “For a moment there, I thought I’d have to buy again.”

Hawke stared at her pitiful hand and chewed her lip anxiously.

“Don’t look so down, sweet knees,” Isabela swiped up the discarded cards, “I’m sure bringing your friends a tray of Corff’s finest will cheer you up.”

“Go on, up you get,” Anders smiled, nudging the empty tray.

“Right,” Hawke said with a nod, “I’ll just… go do that…”

With unnatural slowness, as though waiting for some form of rescue, she rose from her seat. It was painful to watch her blatant stalling – dragging the tray over with a single, hooked finger, adjusting the empty mugs into a neat circle – and Fenris waited for the inevitable with locked breath.

When her stall tactics were all dried up, she cleared her throat and, trying to sound casual, asked, “Fenris, can you please help me carry the drinks back?”

The chatter, the shuffle of cards, the clink of mugs and the slurp of ale – it all stopped. Though neither he nor Hawke seemed able to look at anyone but each other, they both felt how all eyes had zoned in.

This was what they got for being at each other’s throats for five years.

With a stiff nod, Fenris rose, and he felt very much like a halla being watched by hikers – hikers wanting to see what the halla did next but worried they’d spook it if they moved.

If their gazes became much more intense he might just gore them.

Hawke’s voice wavered. “Thank you.”

In a brilliant lesson of why one should never think the words _‘it can’t get any worse’_ , Merrill then cried _“I’ll help too!”_ and scrambled out of her chair. The heads of their companions whipped to this new spectacle in frightening near-unison.

In the second it took Merrill to squeeze around the table and join Hawke and Fenris, they’d at least been able to school away the silent groans that were written all over their faces (though their blushes were determined to remain). It would have been lovely to have a couple of holes in which to crawl.

Lifting her chin up but openly cringing, Hawke marched out of the room, the two elves at her heel.

She and Fenris both winced when, at the top of the steps, they heard Isabela say in a hungry voice, _“Well, that was entertaining. Thoughts everyone?”_

Once in the din of the pub crowds, Fenris hissed, “What are you doing, witch?”

The targets on their foreheads were bright enough without adding extra paint.

“Don’t be such a grouch, Fenris,” Merrill smoothly stepped on and over a wayward chair, “You and Hawke looked awfully suspicious going to get drinks together. Three people is not so odd; I’m helping.”

Hawke was obstructed by a pair of drunken dancers, and she quickly grabbed Fenris’ arm when, in his distress, he only continued to walk. “I appreciate the intent, Merrill, but I doubt the first conclusion they’d jump to is ‘magical tether’.”

The dancers skipped to the side and they pushed through to the bar. Corff was occupied, so Hawke threw up a hand to catch his attention, dumped the tray of empty mugs, and then turned around to lean against the counter.

“No, I suppose not,” Merrill said absently, her fickle focus now on the keep as he worked the taps, “Varric doesn’t suspect, anyway. He seemed fairly certain this afternoon that you were _“finally ‘bumping uglies’”_. I didn’t understand, but I thought it sounded a bit rude. Both of you are very pretty.”

All the blood in Fenris’ brain gushed down to his face and his ears.

 _She just said…_

Oh, how he wished he and Hawke weren’t looking at each other right now. Those eyes were wide as sovereigns, and the red in her cheeks only added to the brilliance in his own.

 _And what did Varric mean by “finally”?_

“Th-that…” she began to splutter, saucer-eyes tearing away to blink at Merrill.

“ _No,_ ” Fenris managed in a hard voice, furiously stamping down on the swell of vulgar images, “Absolutely not.”

Merrill’s head darted between them. “Did I say something wrong?”

“ _Yes,_ ” Hawke breathed, “Well no, it’s not _wrong_ , but wrong.”

“We are not _bumping_ anything.”

Hawke placed a hand over her eyes and groaned, waving her other at Merrill. “Andraste’s knicker line, between now and this morning, Varric probably thinks we’re in some kind of three-way.”

 _Hawke just said ‘three-way’._

“Well, we are, aren’t we?” Merrill asked, “The three of us are all here together.”

“ _No_ ,” he mirrored Hawke and placed a palm over his eyes, willing the world away, “And you are never to repeat this conversation to anyone, _witch_ , or I will punch a hole through your chest.”

Merrill tutted. “There’s no reason to go fisting people, Fenris.”

“ _Don’t call it fisting!_ ”

“Maker have mercy,” Hawke spun around to face the bar, “Corff, five of the usual muck and two of your strongest.”

 _Do not think about fisting._

 _…Hawke and fisting._

“I hate you, blood mage,” Fenris hissed under his breath.

No one said anything more as they waited for the drinks, though the air was as thick and hot as tar. Hawke didn’t turn back to face them, merely tapped a staccato with her forefinger and chewed the thumb nail of her other hand. The absence of her gaze was welcome, but Fenris simply couldn’t stop staring at the flaming red skin of her neck, couldn't help wondering what thoughts were running through her head.

Merrill, utterly unaffected by the atmosphere, just fiddled with her scarf.

They were weaving back through the masses, Hawke and Fenris with eyes forward, backs rod-straight, when the air-brained Dalish poked them both on the shoulder and asked them to stop.

“What is it now?” he snapped, the drinks jostling on the tray he held as he turned to face her.

Merrill was unfazed by his hostility. “There was another reason I came down to the bar with you and Hawke. I forgot with all the talk of–”

“ _Nothing_ ,” Fenris warned, “There was no talk.”

Hawke stepped in, trying for ease but unconsciously crossing her arms tightly. “What’s on your mind, Merrill?”

“It’s about your _problem_ ,” she had enough sense to peer around and lower her voice, “I have a theory, but whether I’m wrong or right, we’ll need the Keeper’s help.”

Another mage – another _apostate_ at that. This only got better.

Hawke leaned in closer. “What’s your theory?”

“Well, the _an’ravi_ altar was used in the ritual of _hamin’utharel_ to bind the elders to their graves...”

“We already assumed it had a purpose like that,” Hawke frowned, “But it was never intended to bind _people_ together, was it? That doesn’t seem likely.”

“No, that was never the stone’s purpose,” Merrill confirmed, and she almost sounded like an intelligent person, “but I think the special circumstances warped its magic.”

“What special circumstances?”

“You and Fenris, of course.”

They shared a look of confusion, which Merrill, even as terminally oblivious as she was, managed to note.

“Fenris’ touch was like dumping a big pile of lyrium on the altar,” she clarified.

Anger lanced through his middle.

“His markings,” Hawke said quietly; almost a whisper.

 _These vile markings_. Of course, _of course_ they would be to blame.

He felt Hawke’s eyes shift to him, but he would not look at her, _refused_ to see the smugness at her realisation that this debacle was partially his fault – or worse, her pity.

Rustling up a rare sliver of tact, she sighed and let him be. “You said that I played a factor as well, though?”

“I think if only Fenris had touched the altar, nothing would have happened,” Merrill continued, ignorant to Fenris' plummeting mood, “But I believe that the magic in your body acted as a… spark? Not to mention that you were also holding _vheravi_ , which has its own binding properties.”

“What you’re saying is that we created one whacky, magical hodgepodge.”

“Yes! What a fun way to put it.”

When Hawke didn’t say anything more, even after a long moment, Fenris lost some of his bitterness to confusion. He turned to her, not pleased with how distant her eyes were, or with the crease of skin in between them. “What is it?”

She came back to herself and offered a crooked, wary smile.

“It’s nothing.” She ignored the objection he’d begun to form and addressed Merrill, “You said the Keeper might be able to help?”

It was obviously not _‘nothing’_. Hawke was concerned, and if Artemis _the Eternally Optimistic_ Hawke was concerned, then _Fenris_ was concerned.

“I think she is the only one who can,” Merrill’s eyes flicked to Fenris and then back to Hawke, and he just knew that she was in on this subtext, “I sent a messenger to the camp this afternoon. We should hear something tomorrow.”

“What am I not being told?” he demanded.

“It’s _nothing_ , Fenris,” Hawke lied again - badly, “Come on, everyone is waiting for their drinks.”

If not for the execrable tether, he’d have continued to argue, but she had spun around and was moving fast, clearly relying on Fenris to prioritise staying within range over biting her head off. With a few quick strides, they were on the steps leading to the second floor, and now much too close to Varric’s room for further conversation.

The scene they encountered once back in the suite only stoked his temper.

“ _There’s_ the band of misfits,” Isabela smiled wickedly, pulling back from the intense, huddled discussion in which the entire table had been engaged. The rest of their companions hurriedly relaxed back into their seats, and it was plain by their expressions what had been the topic of their gossip.

“We would have sent a search party,” she propped an ankle up on her knee, no regard for propriety, “but we didn’t know _what_ they’d be interrupting.”

Isabela’s lewd insinuations were amusing… up until they were directed at you.

Hawke lifted her chin and waltzed to her seat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, and frankly, I don’t want to know.”

“I love it when you play coy.”

“ _Isabela_ ,” Aveline warned, who was sitting with her full Guard-Captain rigidity.

“I’m just having fun,” and the pirate swatted Merrill on the rear as she was rounding the table, the elf’s yelp adding to Isabela’s amusement.

“If broody’s face is any indication,” Varric interjected, “I’d say he’s all funned out.”

Safely back in her seat, Merrill said, “No no, silly, his face is always like that.”

“I don’t know, Daisy. He seems especially… worked up.”

Anders was the only one who hadn’t said a word, but his opinion on these innuendos became clear when Fenris leaned past to relinquish the drink tray and was, thus, offered a close view of his face - it was a reasonable guess that the abomination wanted _very_ badly to incinerate Fenris with his eyes.

The fact that their companions’ theory – however undoubtedly sordid its nature – was sitting ill with this man, momentarily swiped away Fenris’ displeasure, so far as to twist his lips into a vicious smirk. He didn’t know what exactly had prompted this mad glee, and he was aware that prodding the mage like this would surely only strengthen the floating rumours, but there was no denying the satisfaction Fenris felt in seeing Anders narrow his eyes angrily in response.

Next to the abomination, Hawke had witnessed the exchange, and couldn’t have looked more stunned if she’d just been hit in the face with a shovel.

“Trouble in paradise, Hawke?” Isabela asked too-sweetly, and Hawke blinked out of her daze.

With a final, irrational sneer for Anders, Fenris settled into his seat.

“I’m fine,” Hawke breathed, snatching up one of the stronger drinks on the tray, a flush on her cheeks, “Just deal the cards.”

✷


	12. Chapter 12

The evening was on a downward spiral.

No matter how many times Hawke diverted the conversation, it just wouldn’t stay off-track. A scandal was afoot and Isabela was determined to sniff it out. This tenacity intensified with her inebriation, and more than once, Fenris nearly batted her mug out of her hand. Varric was no help, feeding Isabela’s enthusiasm with the occasional suggestive poke, and Merrill, with her blabbering attempts to aid the situation, was hardly better.

Hawke and Fenris were a mess of blushing, and Hawke’s segues were becoming less and less reasonable.

It was all getting out of hand, the slightest slip of their eyes or tongue and the bombardment of teasing would begin again… which was why, for the past hour, Hawke had been ignoring Fenris’ signal that he needed to go to the bathroom.

He didn’t relish the idea of adding kindling to this fire by pairing off with the woman again, which was why he had attempted to endure the discomfort at first. After an hour though, it would no longer be denied and Fenris had started trying for Hawke’s attention. It wasn’t easy making her understand, but after a few failed attempts, he managed with a pointed stare at the tray of empty mugs and a strategically worded sentence ( _“Shut up, Isabela; if I did have markings there, you would not be_ privy _to such information”_ ).

Unfortunately, she had merely pursed her lips and given a little, frantic shake of her head. Normally, the mage had shoulders of wool wax, and jokes made at her expense would simply roll off like water. Normally, however, the jokes weren’t this lascivious or drawn-out.

So, unwilling to cause more suffering for herself, she let Fenris sit there and endure suffering of a different kind.

 _Not anymore._

“Excuse me,” he announced, getting to his feet and trying not to break his teeth with the force of his gritting, “I need to visit the restroom.”

The glare Hawke slapped him was full of disbelief, her nostrils flaring and reddening in a way he’d never seen before.

It was... actually rather distracting.

Only _semi_ -graciously accepting defeat, she drew a deep breath through her nose, pushed out from the table and stood.

“It seems I also need to go,” she said, an edge to her cheeriness.

She might as well have jumped Fenris – _he wished he hadn’t thought that_ – for the looks they were now getting.

“Just like that?” Anders blurted, his eyebrows pinched together in suspicion, “You only realised right now, in this second, that you need to go?”

“Shh,” Isabela cooed, “ _we_ can go if you like.”

Apparently, ‘going to the bathroom’ was now code for ‘tryst in _The Hanged Man_ ’.

Hawke ignored the latter comment and smiled tightly down at Anders. “Yep, will wonders never cease? Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

“Make it quiiick,” Isabela sang as Hawke rounded the table, “we’ve one more round left.”

“Just going to the _bathroom_ , Isabela.”

It was only once they had walked the length of the hallway and were standing outside the men’s bathroom door, when Hawke deemed it safe to speak.

“I’m just going to tell them,” she burst, a harried glint in her eye.

Mind flinching, he exclaimed, “I won’t allow that!”

“What are you going to do, gag me?”

“You will _not_ tell them. It would only invite–”

“Mocking? Innuendo? Judgment?” she supplied, pitch rising, “I think we’ve already passed that town.”

It made his muscles clench to admit that she had a point. The whole motivation to keep their companions out of the loop was to avoid comments like the ones they’d been bearing all night.

He flicked his hand and expelled a harsh breath. “Fine. We will tell them when we return.”

The yield brought a disarming smile to Hawke’s face, which only made his muscles tighten that bit more. Eager to escape the expression, he pushed on through to the bathroom. When Hawke did not follow after his first few steps inside though, he spun back around impatiently, though he was aware that he was feeling testier than was warranted.

“What is it now?”

From the doorway, she was appraising the room, face scrunched up in distaste. “It’s disgusting in here.”

There was no point in arguing. The wooden floor was stained and even rotted in some places, and the two stall doors were no better, one of which was falling off its hinges. Empty bottles and wads of sodden parchment littered the room as well.

“You will have to endure.”

“I know, just give me… dagnabbit!” she popped both hands on her hips, “I forgot the _Privy Pads_.”

“Just call them earmuffs, you twit.”

“They are no longer earmuffs.”

“ _Yes_ they– why am I discussing this?” he turned around, “Hurry up and get in here.”

Once Fenris was done and Hawke had made him wash his hands (an idea to which he was only resistant because the basin looked like it would do more harm than good), they exited the filthy room –

Only to come face-to-face with each of their companions.

There was no time to even process the stretch of faces before the chaos erupted.

“You were _in_ there with him?” Anders exclaimed, a few strands of his hair frizzing from the sudden static of his magic.

“Calm down, Blondie, I don’t think I can put spontaneous magical combustions on my tab.”

“Mmm, I know where _I_ could use a spontaneous magical combustion.”

“Keep it to yourself, whore.”

“ _I’m_ a mage, Isabela, maybe I can help you!”

Cheeks splotched with embarrassment, Hawke put a thumb and middle finger to her teeth and gave a sharp whistle.

The chatter came to a halt.

“What in the _Void_ is going _on?_ ”

The abomination crossed his arms and glared. There was an accusation in his eyes that made Fenris’ lyrium itch. “That’s what we’d like to know.”

“ _Anders_ ,” Aveline chided, “this is none of our business.”

Isabela winked at the pair. “Pfft, technicalities. These two are harbouring a fat piece of gossip and I’m bored of waiting for them to share.”

“Have you lost your mind, Hawke?” Anders stepped closer, and Fenris briefly entertained the idea of breaking the man's feet, “This _monster_ despises all mages! _He hates you!_ ”

It was not the first time Fenris had been branded a monster, but the rage which flashed beneath his skin at the mage's words was much hotter than usual. Teeth bared, he snarled, “Hold your tongue abomination, or I shall tear it out!”

“And you make such a convincing case for yourself.”

“ _Enough!_ ” Hawke heaved, her blush giving way to an unhealthy pale, “You’ll both start glowing in a second if you keep at it.”

“Yum, I _like_ when they glow.”

“And _you!_ ” Hawke smacked Isabela on the shoulder, eliciting a whiny _‘hey’_ from the pirate, “Stop being a tart for a few minutes so I can explain what’s really going on.”

Aveline gave the mouthy harlot an imperious look and then turned to Hawke. “I’m sorry, Artemis, I’m only out here because I was trying to stop these idiots from being more idiotic.”

“I know, Aveline; that’s why you’re my favourite.”

There were a few sulky objections at the jest, but Hawke only tutted.

It was with great difficulty that Fenris and Anders broke their stare-down. It would have brought him no small amount of pleasure to rip that mage's _possessive, presumptuous_ eyes right out of the sockets; something he might still do if only to stop them from mooning so pathetically at Hawke.

The man's ogling had become inexplicably grating to Fenris.

“I’m going to like this story, aren’t I?” Varric asked, mischief written all over his face.

“Yes, unfortunately,” Hawke smirked wryly, then glanced sideways, “Shall I begin, Fenris?”

“If it will stop this madness,” he agreed hotly.

“Excellent. Quick version then,” she sucked a deep breath and exhaled it in a long, dramatic stream, “The altar on Sundermount did a little more than fling us around.”

Whatever everyone had expected Hawke to say, that wasn’t it.

Isabela put a hand on her hip, her face contorting comically. “Wait, what?”

“The _an’ravi_ altar on Sundermount,” Merrill supplied, “It was used in–”

“I remember, kitten; I was just hoping the story would start with something more along the lines of _‘It was a hot night and my smalls were sticking…’_ ”

“Hessarian’s hammertoe, this is impossible,” Hawke rubbed her eyes, “Look, Fenris and I are _not_ in a relationship. We are not sleeping together, either. I assure you, any crude little fantasies you’ve concocted are very much off-the-mark.”

There was no helping the heat that flooded into his ears. They were standing in a public hallway, vehemently explaining to their friends that they weren’t having a passionate affair.

He could hardly even look at Hawke after that final thought - or to be more precise, the unbidden thoughts it _triggered._

“Then what has been going _on_ all night?” Anders asked exasperatedly, though he had relaxed noticeably, “What happened with this altar?”

Hawke laughed an exhausted, sardonic laugh. “Due to an unlucky amalgamation of factors, the binding magic in the stone went a _wee_ bit haywire when Fenris and I touched it.”

“Binding mag– _wait_ ,” Anders balked, his eyes flitting between her and Fenris before bulging solely at Hawke, “You _don’t_ mean–”

“That it bound us together like a pair of draft brontos?” she offered, “That's precisely what I mean.”

Silence reigned.

Hawke slid Fenris a look that was partway between amused and anxious.

“To be precise,” she continued, hands clasping behind her back, “We cannot be more than six feet from each other.”

Anders gawked. “As in, you _can’t?_ ”

“Nope.”

“As in, you and– you _always_ have to be together?”

“Correct.”

“As in, you absolutely, physically – even if someone is dragging you kicking and screaming – _cannot_ be separated beyond that point?”

It sounded very much like he wanted to drag Hawke away right now. That would not be happening.

“We can, but things get very nasty.”

Fenris and Hawke shared a grimace.

Varric frowned. “What kind of nasty are we talking about here?”

“It’s like…” she struggled to find the words, the mere memory drawing her face, “It just... it _hurts_.”

Prompted by some impulse, Fenris interceded. Voice nothing more than a clinical drone, he explained, “If we step out of range we are overcome with an unimaginable array of pain, and it is only by returning to the confines of the boundary that it dissipates.”

“Much better than what I said,” the grateful smile Hawke offered sent a slither of warmth into his stomach. Leaving him with this squirming heat, she then turned back to Anders and said awkwardly, “So, um, you probably shouldn't expect me at the clinic any time soon, just in case. I don't know when this will all be sorted.”

“I’ll help!” Merrill chirruped immediately, eyes nearly falling out of her head in excitement, “I’ve always wanted to help at the clinic!”

There was a brief flash of horror across the abomination’s face. “ _No_. No, I mean… no, that won’t be necessary, Merrill.”

Isabela chuckled and, unfortunately, brought everyone back to the prevailing issue. “As far as magical mishaps go, this is just _delicious_.”

Hawke sighed wearily. “You’re already plotting friend fiction in your head, aren’t you?”

“How do you feel about this as a title? _Behind Closed Doors: The Kink in Our Link…_ ”

Desperately trying to ignore the pirate's flapping mouth, Fenris focussed on Aveline, who was not so amused with the situation. Brows bunched in concern, she asked, “What about when you’re within this… boundary? It doesn’t hurt then?”

“… _How about this one, Rivaini?_ ” Varric played into Isabela's idiocy, the two of them now chattering in the background, “ _‘A Beautiful Bind: Bonding over Bondage’…_ ”

“No, everything’s tip-top as long as we stay within range,” Hawke cast a sly look to her left, “Well, if you ignore the part where Fenris constantly wants to shove a sock in my mouth.”

“If he’s been with you since Sundermount,” Anders’ voice had gone sharp, “then he must have spent the night.”

“ _… Ooh, lovely, but try this: ‘Leather, Feathers and Tethers’…_ ”

“Well, yes, obviously,” Hawke admitted, fringe shifting as her eyebrows rose. That answer did not sit well with the abomination – and that sat _very_ well with Fenris.

“You had him in your _bedroom?_ ”

Fenris interrupted with a sound of derision. “What would you have us do? Sleep pressed up against opposite sides of the door?”

“ _…‘Our City of Chains: Harnessed in Hightown’?…_ ”

“I think it’s all very sweet,” Merrill piped, “Fenris is always so prickly with Hawke; it’s nice that they have to snuggle in a bed together.”

Whilst Anders choked on his own air, Fenris squawked, “ _There was no snuggling!_ ”

“And he slept on the floor!” Hawke cried.

“ _… Wait! This one’s perfect; ‘If We’re Stuck, We Might as Well F–’_ ”

“ _Stop spouting those nonsense titles!_ ” Fenris barked, and Hawke mashed her palms to her blazing face, groaning helplessly.

After a great deal more insanity, Hawke and Fenris managed to usher the group back into Varric’s suite. There, they did their best to explain everything properly, but their companions did not make it easy.

Innuendos flowed as steadily as the ale, and Anders became less rational with each question. The abomination had always worn his affection for Hawke on his sleeve, and this time was no different; he made no attempts to conceal his opinion about her and Fenris “ _shacking up_ ”. The exceptional circumstances meant nothing to the crazed apostate, only that the object of his obsession was currently spending all of her time with another man – a man Anders hated.

It was a dreadfully long night, the final round of Wicked Grace never even played. The moment the last valid question had been answered, Fenris and Hawke grunted their farewells and escaped the pub.

They didn’t say much to each other on the walk back to the estate, both too chagrined and exhausted.

Sometimes, words simply weren’t necessary though.

This was one of those times.

Even as potent as their rivalry had become over the years, their yawns and heavy gait and grim lines communicated well enough that they had managed, finally, to agree upon one thing…

 _They should have just stayed in._

✷


	13. Chapter 13

In hindsight, Fenris should not have been surprised by what happened the next morning.

The hope that his next wake-up call would be more pleasant than the last was clearly a hope made in vain. He wasn’t sure what exactly woke him: the mabari sprawled on his chest again or the commotion outside Hawke’s bedchamber, but it hardly made a difference, as they annoyed him equally.

“ _Move_ ,” Fenris gasped, pushing at the dog’s flank. Claymore let out a disgruntled huff but didn’t budge.

The racket outside the door had woken Hawke as well. From the bed, she yawned, “S’going on out there Ferris?”

“I don’t– _release me, mutt!_ ” Fenris hissed, and with a mighty shove that had Claymore whining mournfully, he managed to free himself.

From beyond the door, Bodahn said in his hushed tone (though the effort was no longer necessary), _“I’m sorry, but the Lady is sleeping, Messere!”_

“ _I’m sure she won’t mind if we just take a peek,_ ” said another voice – a familiar, sultry voice that made Fenris want to disembowel pirates everywhere out of pure spite.

“Isabela?” Hawke croaked to Fenris, one shoulder dipping off the bed as she leaned closer. Relieved of his canine bedmate, he propped up on his elbows and nodded curtly. His mood was already clucking its tongue; that wench could not be here for innocent reasons.

“ _I’m sorry, milady_ ,” Bodahn persisted, bless the dwarf, “ _If you’d like to leave a message, I’d be happy to pass it along_.”

“ _Yes, just go Isabela. My message can’t wait, however._ ”

“And _Anders?_ ” Hawke breathed. As Fenris' jaw was currently trying to crush his teeth into dust, he did not answer. If the wake-up call had been a choice between yesterday’s excruciating events and that abomination’s voice, he would have taken the pain gladly.

“ _Then I’ll ask you to wait in the study, Messere, and I will wake the Lady._ ”

There were more objections, each one wriggling its way underneath Fenris' skin. There was no doubt that these fools were only here in the hope (or fear, in Anders' case) of seeing a spectacle. With jerky movements that one could actually interpret as annoyed, Hawke straightened up in her bed and smoothed back some of the hair that had escaped her knot.

“Bodahn,” she called, an intriguing hardness to her tone, “just let them in.”

Despite an open door policy, she was obviously not at _all_ happy with this early visit. Though Fenris was not fond of this decision to grant the intruders admission into the bedchamber, he found the objection in his throat stoppered by a strong chunk of curiosity – he had never seen Hawke displeased to see a friend; even Fenris was usually met with a smile.

Pulling away from his rather intense staring, he slid up into a proper sit and faced the door with a mixture of grimness and anticipation.

“ _If you wish, milady,_ ” Bodahn said unsurely, and the door swung open. Anders and Isabela entered, though the contrast in their auras was significant.

“Blast,” the pirate stopped just beyond the entrance alcove, a hand on her hip and a smirk on her face, “I was hoping you were lying about him sleeping on the floor.”

Maybe it was the early morning, maybe it was because even _Hawke_ didn’t like her hospitality abused, but the Lady of the House was not laughing. Isabela sauntered over to the vacant side of the bed and flopped on the edge, unmindful of - or unmoved by - its occupant's stony expression.

The sleep-induced thickness did nothing to blunt the edge in Hawke's voice. “I take it this is the entire foundation of your visit? To pry?”

“Yep.”

“Of course it is,” she clipped, then turned sharp eyes to Anders, who was standing at the end of the bed and looking at the scene with a dark expression, “And you? What is this urgent message?”

The harshness of her address sent a pleasant current of heat through Fenris' body. That probably wasn't healthy.

The abomination became impossibly straighter and flicked the manuscript he was holding. “I came to deliver the latest edit of my manifesto.”

Everything about this man was weak, right down to his excuses. Fenris sneered, feeling more contemptuous than angry. “This is the best lie you could craft, mage?”

“I was not speaking to you,” he snapped, eyes smouldering with unrestrained loathing.

"Yet I am still awake and suffering your presence."

“Uh oh, I smell a spanking coming on,” Isabela sang.

“I have _had_ it with this!” Hawke railed, and all eyes swung to the fuming woman. The unfamiliarity of her ire chased away the insult Fenris had been about to hurl at the pirate, and brought a general hush down on the room. “Isabela, Anders," she continued tartly, "thank you for disturbing our much-needed rest. Now, if you’ve sated your curiosities, I would have you both on your way.”

The word 'our' wedged itself inside Fenris' ear.

How novel.

Isabela jumped up from the bed, her boots clunking loudly on the polished wood.

“No need to stick around, I guess,” she said, folding her arms, “It’s pretty clear you’re not getting any, Surly Sue.”

“I only came to deliver the manifesto, Hawke,” Anders insisted, though his neck was reddening. Upon closer inspection, Fenris noticed the extra hair coming out the man's tie, the ink stains on his fingers, and the way those hideous pauldrons were slightly askew; likely he had been up most of the night in one of his rumoured _fits_.

Isabela rolled her eyes, walked over and hooked their arms. “Sweet thing, no one’s buying.”

Hawke held the abomination’s eyes in a piercing, unwavering stare; a far cry from the friendly glow Fenris was used to seeing. “You came to _spy_ , Anders. I thought you to have more restraint.”

“Look, I’m only concer–”

“No. You’re not. At least, not in the way you were about to claim. Whatever I do or don’t do–”

“Or who.”

“ _Isabela_ ,” Hawke sucked a breath through her nostrils, which were flaring in that captivating way again, “Whatever I do in my home is not your business, Anders. Now, please go. Just leave the manifesto on your way out.”

The abomination's eyes skated from Hawke to Fenris, a gamut of objections and opinions blazing in their depths. After a few jerks from Isabela and an exasperated _“come on, or she’ll set your fun parts on fire”_ , he reluctantly complied.

As soon as the footsteps had died, Hawke whipped off her blanket and burst, _“The nerve!”_. She dislodged a corner of the blanket from her foot with an annoyed kick, fuming all the while. “He didn’t even have a decent lie ready!”

The ranting was _fascinating_. It was not something Fenris has witnessed from the woman before, not even as an outsider. Now, she was ranting _to_ him - about her darling _Anders_ , no less.

Arms draped over knees, Fenris peered intently up at Hawke, who was now sitting on the edge of the bed and gripping her nightdress tensely. With scrutinising eyes and unbound curiosity, he said, “I must admit, I am surprised that this would anger you.”

She half-gaped at him. “You assumed I’d be _alright_ with this behaviour?”

“I was under the impression that the abomination could do no wrong in your eyes,” he said, the words infused with sarcasm despite his intention to be civil. He wanted to hear her explanation, which would never happen if he goaded her into an argument.

“Why would you think that?” she frowned.

Raising a brow at her genuine confusion, he said, “Why would I not? In all these years, I have never seen you angry with the creature – or anyone other than myself, for the most part.”

As she sometimes did when an ache was forming, Hawke pushed a thumb into the point between her eye and nose bridge.

“Of course I get angry with him, Fenris,” she sighed heavily, eyes shut, “Actually, we argue quite often. You are simply never around for those particular conversations.”

“And yet, he is clearly _enamoured_ with you.” His lip curled as the words left his mouth. They felt wrong; misshapen and ugly.

To his increasing astonishment, Hawke laughed. It was humourless though; a small, derisive sound. “He is not enamoured with me.”

“If you think that, then you are blind.”

“No, you are the blind one in this regard,” she countered with a flicker of impatience, “Anders has convinced himself that he harbours feelings for me, when truly, it is only _what_ I am – what I _represent_ – which has him captivated.”

Finding himself wandering somewhere between disapproving and disbelieving, Fenris frowned. “Your magic.”

“Yes,” she said, face now mild, “I am a mage living freely. I would be a useful symbol to Anders, should I ever align with his rebellion.”

“You speak as though you have never considered the idea.” It was difficult to accept that _Hawke_ , who had helped countless mages escape the Circle over the years, would be opposed to the abomination’s efforts.

She tilted her head and gave Fenris a crooked smile. “I have not. I believe in freedom, certainly, but tempered by responsibility. Anders, though I care for him deeply, is a perfect example of what can happen to a mage when they are not required to answer to anyone. I want equality, while he wants anarchy.”

This had to be a guise.

“You have aided the escape of many mages,” he challenged, attempting to draw out the woman he knew.

This was _not_ Hawke.

“That is true,” she said easily, far too easily, “and you have also seen me stop many blood mages and abominations.”

“Which would not have been necessary if they had been in the Circle.”

There was now a distinct sadness seeping through her expression, like he'd _hurt_ her somehow.

“I care about suffering, not sides,” she said gently, that sadness locking him to her eyes, “It might be considered naive, given the current state of the world, but I try to focus on the individual and not get swayed by the plight of the many. You forget, for example, that I've saved as many Templars as I've freed Circle mages.”

Fenris was shaken. His head was a mess of puzzle pieces that either didn't fit together properly, or _did_ fit and created pictures that he didn't want to see.

“I do not understand you,” he said exasperatedly, running an agitated hand through his hair and wishing he could verbalise this swirl of confusion.

Without missing a beat, she said, “That’s because, in some ways, you are like Anders.”

The comparison nearly made Fenris taste bile, but before he could spew his objection, Hawke distracted him by lifting from the bed to walk to the wardrobe. Her face was hidden as she flicked through clothing, her voice still careful.

“A long time ago, you both decided I was not ‘Artemis Hawke’ but ‘Hawke the Mage’. It was decided that my magic defined me, and of course, that it must motivate my every decision. So, no, you do not understand me right now, and that is because you believe that you already did.”

She spun around then, smile armed, a robe in each hand. “Now, what do you think, hunter green or emerald today?”

That final comment – _not_ about her robes – hit something inside the elf. The words had bruised him, and even as he and Hawke went about their morning preparation, that mark would not fade. It twinged a little whenever he considered Hawke's estimation of their relationship - this possibility that he'd always seen black and white where there was, apparently, colour.

More disturbing was the idea that he'd always known there was colour; that he'd seen it and simply painted over.

Even without his disdain, it would have been easy for her _own_ vision to warp, for her to see Fenris as a lowly slave or elf, a fugitive to be pitied, a monster.

And yet, he’d always just been _Fenris._

It bothered him.

This bruise she’d left with her words – he realised with an element of concern – was a mark of remorse.

And he doubted that it would disappear any time soon.

✷

Breakfast consisted of gooseberry scones and vegetable frittatas, neither of which Fenris had eaten before that morning, and exquisite enough to distract from some of his troubles. Though a challenge, he did however manage to pull his mind from his stomach long enough to speak with Hawke about visiting his estate; he needed his own armor and weapon maintenance supplies, as well some more clothing (this new pit of guilt in his gut trembled at the thought of accidentally damaging Carver’s old clothes).

Fed, watered, dressed (Hawke had gone with the hunter green... not that he should have spared such a trivial detail a second thought) and armed ( _always_ armed), they made to exit the estate – only to have their path immediately blocked. Aveline stood on the other side of the door, her fist raised to knock.

Hawke joked, “I like to imagine that you’ve been standing here like this all morning, just so we could have this funny little moment.”

The Guard-Captain chuckled, “I’m a riot, what can I say?”

She stepped out of the way and allowed Hawke and Fenris to walk outside, where they convened amidst bright sunshine and the bustle of Hightown.

“So, what can we do for you, Aveline?”

We.

“If you’re free-” she frowned and corrected herself, “if you’re both free, obviously, I’d welcome your help tonight. I’ve finally found the shit-brained scum responsible for burning the flags on all of the Ferelden trade vessels.”

At hearing her country's name, Hawke lifted her chin and straightened her spine. “It’s been a while since we went Doglord on anyone. Count me in.”

Indeed, there was something very _Ferelden_ about their dispositions at that moment. It was in the set of their jaws, the fire in their eyes. The Tevinters called the Doglands barbaric, but (despite his aversion to cold and canines) Fenris could understand the country's appeal. It was a free place, its people were proud and its women were bred strong. These were traits to be lauded, not pitied.

“And you, Fenris? This affects you,” Aveline said, though even if he’d felt an objection, it was clear that it wouldn’t have mattered.

“It’s fine.”

“Excellent, and thank you. I’ll meet you both here an hour after sundown.”

After a quick farewell, the Captain hurried off to her duties.

As they walked through the square, their pace casual so as to enjoy the clear weather, Fenris was still stuck on thoughts of Ferelden. Even after so much time away, mere mention of the country ignited a flame in Hawke's eyes. He felt no such passion for Tevinter.

It might have been a personal question, he wasn't sure, but he went ahead and asked, “Do you still miss your homeland?”

In her usual habit, Hawke clasped both hands behind her back then lifted her face to the sky; the sun beamed brightly off her pale skin. “Fiercely,” she sighed.

To have a place that you would wish so desperately to see again; it was not something which Fenris could properly grasp.

“You have been in Kirkwall for many years,” he reasoned, imploring her to see how illogical her yearning was, “Do you not see it as home now?”

“I do,” she nodded politely at one of the noblewomen as she spoke, though her eyes were far away, “All the people I love are in this city, as are my final memories of Mama and Carver. This _is_ home, but I will always mourn Ferelden.”

“That is pointless.”

Hawke stopped walking and turned to him properly. The great sun statue atop the Chanter’s board glared down at them, igniting the gold in Hawke’s hair. “You have never considered anywhere your home?”

There was obviously something he was missing here and it frustrated him. “I have lived here for nearly as long as you, have I not?”

It was with a stuttering heart that he watched Hawke, quite unexpectedly, reach out to him; and then her hand was on his arm, and for a mad second, his heart stopped altogether. Though it was mostly leather she touched, the edge of her palm rested on the exposed skin of his bicep. It was startlingly warm.

“Yes,” she smiled tenderly, “but home is not just where you happen to be, Fenris; home is where you want to _stay_. I never wanted to leave Ferelden, and so I grieve its loss.”

Voice but a distant and disconcerting rumble, he pressed (with no real determination), “But you could return.”

“Not if it meant leaving all of you behind,” she said quietly, “And as you are still here, maybe that says something about you as well.”

 _All of you._

Fenris was feeling overwhelmed. Hawke was glowing hair and jade eyes and softness and _he just couldn’t make his mouth work._

When she removed her hand and he was able to think again, he hastily tucked this memory away into a secret part of his mind - though, his motivations for doing so were somewhat elusive.

It simply seemed a moment worth keeping.

✷


	14. Chapter 14

It was comforting to be back in his mansion, even if the stay was short.

With all this disruption to his world, Fenris wanted something of his to take back to Hawke’s estate, just to keep him anchored. The armor polish that Orana had provided was nearly down to mere stains, which provided the perfect excuse for him to fetch his own – it was one of the few things which well and truly belonged to Fenris. The dents of the copper tub were familiar to his fingers, and in particular, he had missed the _scent_ of the polish; polish he’d been making himself since his fateful time in Seheron.

Hawke always liked to poke around when she visited the mansion, an inclination that time had not subdued, even though nothing much had changed. There was a clay planter box, half the size of Hawke’s trunk, which Fenris kept in the corner by the bed he never used, and it was with great interest that she watched him take off the lid and rummage inside. Most of the actual trunks he’d found in the mansion had had rot in them, so he used the planter box instead, utilising its resistance to damp. Here he kept a few articles of house clothing, though only the trousers were ever used.

Once done, they dropped the items at Hawke’s manor and continued on with other errands. They ventured to the Gallows, which neither ever enjoyed – Hawke for obvious reasons, and Fenris, because of what this place _used_ to be; with the giant, despairing statues looming from all sides, it was like walking into a piece of his past. They came here often though, despite their reservations; it was impossible to avoid, given that the mages and Templars were the rotted core of this city.

Today, however, it was a simple matter which brought them to the Gallows; a delivery for the herbalist, Solivitus, who all but wet himself with excitement over the wretched _vheravi_. He paid handsomely for the bundle, payment which Hawke was determined to split with Fenris. He’d objected – _vehemently_ – but she’d merely shrugged and labelled his answer inconsequential; by her reasoning, as long as they were stuck together it made little difference whose pocket held the coin.

Not that he entirely agreed.

After dragging him to possibly every vendor in Kirkwall (and yet buying _nothing_ ), and returning a handful of misplaced items to assorted strangers (ranging from a simple hat to, in one case, a mysteriously preserved severed finger), they finally returned to the estate to wait for sundown. There were still a couple of hours to spare, so they holed up in the study.

The curtains were open, allowing sunlight to pool on the floor and glare off Fenris’ sword, which was resting by his side whilst he tended his armor (it was already well-polished, but he had wanted to rebuff with his own blend). In front of the unlit fireplace, her usually-colourless skin wearing the light in a yellow sheen, Hawke laid on her stomach and scribbled away in her journal.

It was with a dizzying mixture of bitterness, envy and curiosity that he watched Hawke write. A journal was such a mockery to a person like Fenris, after all. He could not write, he could not read, he had no way of recording his memories, no way of preserving them should they ever be lost again.

It was harder to be free when he was still so bound by a slave’s inadequacies.

He tried to stop watching, but his eyes simply would not obey. From underneath his hair, he’d see a flicker of movement as Hawke kicked her feet or twirled her quill, and he’d be watching again. Just like in this very moment, the hand on his breastplate would falter as he wondered what she was recording, what she _had_ recorded… if she ever wrote about Fenris.

Embarrassment tickled his cheeks at that final contemplation and he resumed his polishing, determined not to be distracted again.

That plan was thwarted when Hawke suddenly spoke.

“I could teach you, you know,” she said, still scratching away with the quill.

Heat licked up his neck and ears like fire consuming a tree. After being stunned into stillness, he began working his rag again, rubbing the plate much harder than necessary.

“No.”

There was a rustle as Hawke turned the page. The scratching continued.

“I helped Papa teach the twins how to read and write,” she persisted cheerfully, not at all intimidated by the thunder cloud sitting in her study, “Not to mention a couple of refugee kids when I was still living in Lowtown.”

Hawke was one of the last people with whom he wanted to discuss his illiteracy.

“I said _no_ ,” he snapped, muscles tensing into hard wires, “Keep your pity to yourself, mage.”

The scratching stilled for a blink, barely long enough to notice, but then it restarted and Hawke simply said, “The offer stands if you ever change your mind.”

They worked in silence once more, and burdened with shame, Fenris was able to resist looking at Hawke again. He was angry with his own ineptitude, and he was angry with Hawke for _noticing_ that ineptitude.

He was also angry that part of him wanted to accept her offer.

After some time, Hawke did speak again, in a voice much smaller than before - much smaller than he'd heard in a long while.

“I have never pitied you, Fenris.”

There was a quality to her tone, a drop, a strain, something that made him think that this was a secret of some kind.

A confession.

He didn’t ask and she didn’t elaborate, and that was fine, because there was safety in ignorance.

✷

Walking around Kirkwall at night was an invitation for trouble. As individuals, Hawke, Fenris and their companions were no easy targets, but even _they_ avoided walking the dark streets without company – no matter your skill, the odds of having your jugular sliced open were far greater when it was one versus twenty. They’d been lucky so far though, managing to reach the docks without being accosted by anyone more dangerous than the occasional drunk.

The filth dumped by the constant trading vessels and the Gallows across the way had tainted the sea here a cloudy, green-brown. The night disguised the pollution though, a large half-moon reflecting in ripples across the black water.

There were always a few whores brave or desperate enough to walk the docks at this time, but apart from the streetwalkers, they encountered no one. And of course, no matter what time of day it was, this place always smelled of fish. And more fish. And, lo and behold, even more, ever more disgusting _fish._

“This is hurting my head,” Varric said from his position as rear guard, successfully pulling Fenris from his fish brooding. Hawked made a rolling _“and?”_ motion with her hand that the dwarf would be able to see.

“This. The two of you walking together.”

“You know they have to, Varric,” Aveline interjected from point.

Indeed, they were seldom stationed close during their journeys. It was odd for Fenris to be in the middle contingent instead of scouting at one of the points.

“Trust me,” he said glumly, “this is no ideal.”

Hawke chuckled. “My, I must be quite the demon if even my silent company offends. Or do I smell? Varric, do I smell?”

No.

“No, sweetheart.”

Though she had been rather closed-lipped about this situation, there was a note of stress in Aveline’s voice when she asked, “Have you heard any news from Sundermount?”

That afternoon, in fact, Merrill had left a letter with Bodahn while Hawke and Fenris had been out around the city. The Dalish Keeper was concerned about their situation and had requested that they travel to the camp at their earliest convenience. Eager to be rid of this tether, they had wholeheartedly agreed to set out tomorrow.

They relayed this development, and Hawke followed with, “Feel like getting out of Kirkwall again, Varric?”

“That’s one way to ask,” he snorted, “but fine, fine, I'll tag along. Maybe I’ll bring a flask so we can make a drinking game out of it; you can take a swig anytime an elf glares at you.”

“I suspect she would suffer liver poisoning after a single visit,” Fenris remarked drily. The Dalish were one of the few people who didn’t fall over themselves in excitement at seeing Hawke approach. Her blasé attitude and inane, childlike questioning didn’t help matters.

Hawke grinned at him (which caused a sensation not unlike a bird flapping its wings in his gut), her eyes sparkling a dark green in the dim light. “If the rules are based on Varric’s exact wording, it is more likely that I would suffer poisoning long before we even reached the camp.”

His muscles defied his intent to not be amused, a small smirk twitching his lips. “That is… fair.”

The somewhat amicable exchange was awarded a low whistle from their dwarven observer, followed by a hushed “weird.”

“Alright, this is the warehouse.” Aveline halted, and thankfully disrupted any additional commentary. There was a chorus of clinks and clunks as everyone readied weapons.

“Wonderful, _another_ warehouse,” Hawke whispered with mock glee, then immediately turned dour, “Just once I’d like to see some originality. A rooftop or a dungeon, maybe.”

“I always liked the idea of a docked pirate ship,” Varric offered.

“How about the Viscount’s garden? There’s a fountain, I’ve heard, which would be rather atmospheric. A _fountain_ , Varric.”

“Now is not the time,” Aveline reprimanded as she gripped the door handle, a perfected expression of disapproval firm on her face. Hawke pulled her lips in and mimed locking them - Aveline was perhaps the only person in the world capable of shutting the woman up.

“Thank you,” the Captain said, losing some of her brashness, “We’ll enter quietly and try the peaceful option. It’s more likely that we’ll be attacked on sight though, so keep focussed.”

She opened the door, and its loud creak was as good as a spit in the face of their stealth plan. She made an irritated sound under her breath, and once they’d all entered, released the handle to carefully unclasp her shield. The door swung back slowly behind them, squeaking obnoxiously as it did so. Lanterns had been lit, both in this small entrance room and the main floor beyond, so they were clearly not alone here.

The stench of fish was not quite so pungent in the warehouse, though this alternative was hardly better – a musty onslaught of sawdust and malt. From Fenris’ peripheral view, he caught Hawke twitching her nose in distaste.

They ventured into the main floor, and though the party was attempting to be subtle, their heavy boots, all steel or hard leather or covered in buckles, nearly made the effort pointless. Hawke’s footwear was better, with its laces and softer hide, but a skilled ear would still be able to hear the shuffle of dirt and rock.

“ _OI!_ ”

They whipped around at the cry, each of them poised for action. A thug in cheap, dirty leathers stood atop the platform at their left, a snarl on his cracked lips. He spat on the ground, a dagger in each hand. “We’ve got company, boys!”

There were more rooms beyond a landing on the east wall, and from them grew a clamour of stomping, laughter, and the metallic slide of blades.

“Alright,” Hawke muttered, eyes pinned on the men now flanking the leader on the west platform, “there are a few more than I expected.”

There were almost two dozen men, spread out between the two landings.

The familiar rattle of plate at Fenris’ back signalled that Aveline was lowering into a defensive stance, and he did the same; knees bending, toes burying into the dirt, power pulsing hotly through his lyrium.

Bianca _thunk_ ed as the first bolt was readied, and Hawke was a beacon of power at Fenris’ right, her magic lapping against his markings like waves on the shore.

“ _GET THEM!_ ”

The wood groaned as the men charged, dust rising with each footfall. War cries and curses were bellowed from so many different points that they merged into one disjointed, angry roar, and it was amazing that the ruffians didn’t accidentally stab each other with the way they were waving their weapons around. Dirt kicked every which way as the men finally hit the main floor, a few of them spitting it out of their mouths as they ran.

Behind him, Aveline’s throaty battle cry stood out in the din created by the enemy. She had charged into their ranks, the sweet clang of her long sword and the heavy, bone-cracking thud of her shield both silencing foes and ripping out screams.

Bianca had already begun singing as well, her first note followed by a bloody gurgle and an enraged _“The dwarf got Lou, tear its arse off!”_.

A group was approaching Fenris and Hawke, but their crazed charging had faltered at the sight of the mage and the glowing, feral-faced elf. The thugs stayed back, taking tiny steps forward, then sideways, not sure how best to approach these particular targets.

Their armor was weak, patchy, probably pillaged from those they’d murdered. There was no order here, only bravado and a thirst for blood.

These men would be dead in moments.

Fenris dragged the point of his sword to rest in the dirt to his left. To his right, Hawke’s staff was a blur of movement as she also readied.

Panic flared in the eyes of one of the men, frying his reason and taking control of his limbs.

There was always one.

The man hollered and broke from his comrades, his mace raised and clutched tight enough to turn his knuckles white. The other scum froze in horror as the strange elf let out a mighty roar, as the air tightened around the mage.

Fenris swung his sword high above his head while Hawke cried out, her staff spinning at the corner of his eye.

His sword came down…

Her staff went up…

 _Oh no._

… And they hit each other.

There was a sonorous _CLANG_ as their weapons collided, the impact and magic of Hawke’s staff vibrating right through his arm and continuing down his spine.

For a moment, all he could hear was that chatter in his teeth. Then, once he’d realised what had happened, he became aware of raucous laughter and a singular, jovial yell.

 _“Take ‘em down, lads!”_

The mace-wielder, who had been taken aback by the unexpected sound of their clashing weapons, came back to himself at his ally’s words.

Fenris tried to lift his sword, but _it was wedged in Hawke’s staff._

The man swung his mace–

“ _Futos!_ ” Fenris spat, kicking out and hitting the man squarely in the chest, who crashed into a pillar with a yelp. With a hard tug, his blade came free, wood splintering away and leaving behind a gouge in the staff. Normally, a sword strike would not have harmed the weapon – but normally, swords did not strike that _hard._

“Look what you did!” Hawke yelled, ice flinging from one hand to snap freeze a charging enemy while she waved her mutilated staff in the other.

Two men came at Fenris, daggers and swords held up like flags, and still he rebuked, “I am not the one who feels the need to _twirl_ their weapon!”

As one dagger was thrown, he simultaneously ducked and swung his sword, disembowelling both attackers in one move.

“They’re coming up behind!” Hawke shouted, her staff whipping upward to crush a man’s testicles, “And I _know_ you twirl too!”

There were only two more men at their front, which Hawke should be able to dispatch easily, so Fenris spun around to deal with the flanking forces.

One was nearly on him already, axe swinging high, but Fenris had learned long ago not to hesitate. He thrust his great sword forward, cutting through heart and spine and killing the man instantly.

From this position, he could see Aveline. She was halfway up the staircase of the east landing, ducked behind her shield and shoving a group of enemies upward, earning her place as party battering ram. A trail of bodies led to the foot of the steps.

“ _Time to burn, bucko!_ ” Hawke yelled from behind him, light and heat blaring outward as she incinerated a combatant.

At this proximity though, the pulse of heat that surrounded her body was too intense for Fenris. He hissed as it sizzled the sweat on the back of his neck, barely parrying his current opponent’s strike in his surprise. As he brought his sword down upon the man’s shoulder, Fenris bellowed, “Do not cast fire when I am this close!”

He wrenched his sword free from the cleft he’d made in the man’s torso, leaving his victim to crumple to the dirt.

“It was just a little flame, you big baby!” Hawke yelled back, her words almost overpowered by the sharp crack of lightning she released.

 _A little flame._

Rage boiled up from Fenris’ gut and he flung around, intending to get in the mage’s face, his sword arcing through the air. There was an unexpected shriek as he turned though, Hawke blurring as she disappeared swiftly from his line of sight.

Once still again, Fenris blinked in surprise at the empty space where Hawke should have been standing. He then looked down, and there she was crouched on the ground, an expression of wide, disbelieving anger on her face as she peered up at him.

His sword was hovering just above her head, a few strands of golden hair falling from the blade.

That wasn’t good.

“ _You nearly lopped my head off!_ ” she screeched ( _actually screeched_ ), popping upward. She was about to berate him something fierce, when her gaze shifted to something over Fenris’ shoulder. “ _Varric!_ ” she gasped, and Fenris twisted around.

An explosion of virulent yellow powder in the far right corner had three men spluttering and staggering, weapons dropping to the ground as they chose to shield their eyes and mouths instead. Varric emerged from the cloud, coat held firmly over his face. Hawke yelled something else, but Fenris was focussing on the enemy rogue sprinting toward Varric. The dwarf’s vision was still blocked by his garment.

Fenris was trained not to hesitate. Instinct trumped his reason, and he shot forward –

Breaching the boundary in under a second flat.

Pain burst inside his brain. Faster than he could draw breath, it tunnelled through his body, splitting open vein and bone. His sword hummed as it hit the dirt, and his insides jolted and tangled as he fell to his knees.

Hawke was screaming. Hawke was in pain too.

 _Venhedis_. Hawke was going to _kill_ him.

Sure that his skeleton would simply shatter, that all of his blood was leaking out and would be long soaked into the dirt before he could make it, Fenris turned on his knees. He wanted to vomit up the puree of organs in his body, but he couldn’t let himself, and before that resolve was crushed, he lurched forward, back into the boundary.

The agony melted away like ice, leaving him wet and feverish.

There was no time to steady though, and he blindly fumbled around for his sword with one hand while he pushed his body up with the other.

His vision was drifting in and out of focus, but he could see Hawke lying on her back, chest rising and falling far too fast.

And then he saw a shadow loom over her.

Panic burned away some of his disorientation, his hand finally finding the hilt of his sword. The shadow shifted and roared, the massive maul in its hands flying downward.

And Fenris was _afraid._

The fear ignited the lyrium in his skin, and before thought could catch up with him, he was _there_ , shoulder barrelling into the man’s chest. They tumbled to the ground, that dangerous maul thudding away, and all the while a red haze of words streamed through Fenris’ head – _suffer protect scared Hawke_ …

His sword had been lost somewhere in the rush, but that was fine, because it gave him an excuse to _crush this man’s heart._

And he did just that.

A flash of power and steel and the man’s life was, literally, in his hand. The snap of tissue as he yanked the organ free was even more satisfying than usual, but not so satisfying as the moment the attacker’s eyes well and truly died.

With a final sneer, Fenris threw the heart aside and jumped up, relief pumping through his body like oxygen. He’d barely turned around though when a harsh push threatened to put him back on the ground.

Shock briefly captured his mind as he absorbed that _Hawke_ had pushed him. _Artemis Hawke._

Behind her, the battle was finished (with very little thanks to her and Fenris), their companions weaving a path through the corpses. It was likely however, that it wouldn’t have mattered if the ceiling was coming down on their heads –

 _Hawke wanted to have words._

Her hair was in disarray, a loop of locks drooping from her skewed barrette, fringe matted with dirt and blood (not hers, _Deis gratae_ ). The usual pale of her skin was a furious red, her eyes pure green fire behind the slits of her lids.

“ _You ran out of range._ ”

He stiffened, that voice so _foreign_ that it raised the hairs of his neck.

“You ran out of _range_ , Fenris.”

“I am aware of this!” he bit, going on an irrational defensive. The panic he’d felt at seeing her at the mercy of that thug still churned in his stomach. It was confusing, and Hawke’s ire was only making things worse, making his chest hurt too.

Her fist tightened around her damaged staff, knuckles blanching. “And you nearly decapitated me.”

These feelings, too unfamiliar, became anger instead. Fenris stepped closer, looming down at her. “And _you_ nearly set me on fire.”

Hawke beat her staff into the ground, eyes blazing up at him. She was not at all intimidated, not even with his markings pulsing as they were. “And _you_ took a chunk out of my staff.”

“I cannot help that you are unable to wield a pole.”

“I can wield my _staff_ just fine,” she shuffled closer, and now there were but a few inches between them, “I would offer to demonstrate, but your arse is already so stuffed with your _head_ that there’s nowhere for me to shove it.”

Blue light flared over her skin as his lyrium raged, deepening the intense lines of her face. “In case you have forgotten, _mage,_ this tether is your fault!”

“That’s right, blame the mage again! Maker forbid you assume any responsibility for the problems in your life!”

The words cut into him, and he stepped right into Hawke’s space, only breaths separating them. The heat from her body throbbed against him, which only angered him more, because it felt _good,_ and it _shouldn’t_ have felt good.

“Watch your tongue, witch.”

This close, her voice shook in his ears. “That is _not_ my name!”

“I call you what you are, _apostate_.”

“Then I shall do the same! You hateful, arrogant, nob-faced _bigot!_ ”

They trembled in front of each other, _against_ each other. All he knew were Hawke’s eyes. They were wild, burning, and so very, deeply _hurt._

Though he had tried for such a reaction many times, he had never, until now, seen or heard her like this - so utterly _provoked_. She tried to drown her gaze with anger, not wanting him to witness the wound he’d caused, but it was there, and he could not budge it from his focus - nor would he ever be able to budge it from his memory.

And he wanted to.

It should have brought him satisfaction, that pain.

But he felt hollow. He felt wrong.

Ill.

No words would come though. Instinct kept him silent, habit kept his eyes cold. This was Hawke after all, and Fenris did not care for Hawke.

With a final clench of her jaw, she stepped away, and there was nothing to do but hold tight to the slipping threads of his anger. Contempt, resentment, blame – these he could do.

Apart from expressing their usual post-battle concern, Aveline and Varric said nothing. They exited the warehouse in silence, leaving the carnage for the city guard to clean in the morning. That first bite of air when Fenris stepped outside felt harsher than usual, less forgiving. The chill was getting through his armor like it never had before, finding kinks that he hadn’t been aware existed.

No one attacked during their trek back to Hightown, which was a blessing, given how profoundly he and Hawke had failed their first attempt at fighting whilst bound.

They entered the house wordlessly, bathed, changed and settled beneath their blankets with unbroken muteness.

Hawke rolled over on her side, her back to Fenris, and he could not help but stare.

Six feet…

It might have been a mile.

✷


	15. Chapter 15

They had been forced to say at least a _few_ words to each other the next morning, since communication had been key so far in their efforts to stay within range, but apart from these occasional, dead-voiced instructions, silence had continued to reign.

Worse had been their breakfast with the rest of the house.

Fenris had fought with Hawke many times during his stay in Kirkwall, but he’d never had to wake up and have a meal with her household afterwards. Melancholy, frustration, these were things he had always woken to alone; the solitude and dankness of his manor had allowed him the freedom to indulge in such bleakness as much as he wished.

Here though, in this house, there was all this _homeliness_ and _routine_ – the smell of mint tea every morning, the dog that was still using Fenris’ chest as a pillow, the way fruit salad was passed clockwise around the dining table, and all these _people_. He simply had no idea what to do with his mood.

Sensing tension but unaware of its cause, Bodahn had, at one point, attempted to break the atmosphere with conversation – unfortunately, by asking about Hawke’s damaged staff. Fenris’ knife had slipped as he was cutting a piece of cheese, the scrape closer to a screech in the quiet room. He’d cringed, cleared his throat and resumed cutting, though not before all eyes had taken turns burning curious holes into his body.

In a clipped tone, Hawke had merely said _“an error in spatial judgment”_ and then popped a pear slice into her mouth.

No one attempted conversation again.

The journey to Sundermount was long and tense, the experience made all the more gruelling by the way Hawke gabbed the whole way – with everyone but Fenris. The events of the previous night played through his head over and over as he watched her (and he truly could not stop watching her), the insults his memory-self spouted growing louder and fiercer with each rendition. Never had he dwelled on an argument like this before; so obsessively observed the other party afterwards.

That wasn’t the worst of it, either. For safety purposes (since he and Hawke were close to useless in a battle), they’d brought not only Merrill and Varric, but an extra person for the trip – _Anders._

The abomination had been surprised to see Hawke at his clinic, not because of the early hour, but because of how atrocious their last encounter had been. She had been _glad_ to see him though, had _embraced_ him, and the man's relief had made Fenris want to claw his smiling face off.

He'd have sooner preferred to eat his own breastplate than have the abomination along, but he was hardly stunned by Hawke's decision. Currently, they were only a liability in combat; if they were walking to somewhere as far and hazardous as Sundermount, then bringing along someone who could not only fight, but heal, was not, _objectively_ , an unintelligent idea.

This precaution did not prove entirely pointless either, for they had been attacked three times during the trek. Unsure what to do and unwilling to communicate, all the pair could do was stay in the same spot, Hawke casting spells from range – _non_ -fire spells – and Fenris dealing with any enemies that happened to come to him. It was an awkward and ineffective way to fight, leaving the brunt of the work to their comrades.

Regardless of how frustrated he felt about needing back-up to compensate for his battle impotence, they made it to the borders of Sundermount intact... which was what mattered... apparently.

As though disturbed by a breeze (though he could not feel one), the magic-scarred grasses fluttered as they neared their destination. This place was alive and wicked, proud of the havoc it wreaked; it remembered Fenris and Hawke, just as it remembered all who walked its grounds.

At the edge of Fenris' vision, shadows shifted... followed. The lands were watching for something; the lands _knew_ something.

Good news did not lay ahead.

It was with a more _familiar_ unease that they finally approached the camp. Fenris despised the wandering elves, his mood blackening that much more with each step. For all that the Dalish claimed otherwise, there was savageness in their blood. Their contempt for all things beyond their isolated little world was legendary and violent.

That Hawke had brought along another _shemlen_ , an antagonistic flat-ear, and the clan’s estranged First, made for a particularly unwelcome reception today. Varric, at least, was spared some of the vitriol; the dwarves – or _durgen’len_ – were only disliked for their foreignness.

“I just love coming here,” Anders murmured as they passed the sour-faced sentries, leaning in closer to Hawke than Fenris would have liked.

She giggled quietly.

 _Giggled._

“If you want, we can visit the Gallows after this...? Then head on to Hightown and catch Elthina’s evening service?”

His eyes glittered to match her mock enthusiasm. “Don’t tease me, woman.”

“I wouldn’t think of it,” she said seriously, ignoring the glares she was receiving from acting so _unintimidated_ in the Dalish camp, “We’ll even take front row; then we can see that sad little droop the Grand Cleric gets in her forehead when she recites the part about the _emerald waters dothing new life_.”

“Dothing?”

“Yes. Dothing.”

The abomination raised his brows in amusement. “Delightfully apocryphal words aside, you’ve got it all wrong. There is absolutely only one way to do service, and that is to sit in the back pew and scratch naughty limericks into the wood.”

“You did not do that.”

“Of course I did. Some of them even came with helpful diagrams.”

“Such as?”

“Stick figures with breasts, obviously.”

Hawke snorted and swatted her fellow mage on the arm. This was the first time she’d acted like herself since last night’s disaster. It was the abomination bringing this out in her, and that was thoroughly irritating.

Thankfully, Fenris was spared anymore of their banter, for they were approaching Keeper Marethari and were all quickly reminded why they had come here in the first place. There was a whistle in the wind; a shrill laugh sent down by the mountain that augured trouble.

“ _Andaran atish’an_ , Keeper,” Merrill said, dipping in respect.

The elder looked as frail as ever, as though a cough on the other side of the camp might knock her down – but that impression only lasted until you looked into her eyes. There was power there, power that had only concentrated with age.

Fenris was now in the company of four mages. It was a wonder he wasn't choking on all the magic in the air.

“You have come quickly, _da’len_ ; I am glad,” Marethari said, her spindly arms unfolding, the campfire sharpening the shadows of her wizened muscle and bone.

Hawke stepped forward, fresh anxiety pulling on her face. “Merrill says you might be able to help us.”

The Keeper frowned kindly, her eyes so large and clear that they reflected the world around them. “That is my hope, children. Please, show me these marks the _an’ravi_ stone left with you.”

Hawke shucked up her sleeve immediately, but Fenris hesitated, not relishing the idea of being touched by this strange mage. The two women stared at him expectantly.

“She needs to see the tattoos, Fenris,” Hawke said impatiently, her own wrist already cradled in the elder’s spidery fingers.

There was that impulse to argue, sitting in his throat like a hot stone. He was aware enough, however, to realise that the impulse was less about his aversion to being touched, and more about wanting to provoke Hawke into a fight – provoke her to continue _speaking_ to him.

This was not the time for such infantile prodding though; he wasn't so lost to frustration that he could not heed that fact. With a few practiced (but somewhat aggressive) movements, he unbuckled his gauntlet. He tossed it to the ground and held out his arm, a deep glower on his face.

The Keeper’s free hand circled his wrist like a wiry bracelet. Her thumb ran over the crescent moon tattoo and layering lyrium vines, sending an objecting shudder through his body.

“Hmm…” she dipped lower and continued to examine each wrist, “it is not quite as I thought.”

At the fringe of his sight, Fenris watched Hawke’s other hand reach behind her back. There, she fidgeted with the material of her robes; a nervous habit. Agitated, she asked, “It’s solid, isn’t it? I knew it was solid.”

“ _Abelas_ , I believe so,” the elder nodded heavily, then released Hawke’s hand. This obscure exchange between the two women flew right over Fenris’ head, his annoyance doubling when it became clear that Marethari was not going to relinquish him as easily as she had Hawke.

The Keeper brought her palm to hover an inch above his wrist, and there was a pocket of humidity between their skin as her power leaked. As though feeling for something in the air, she moved her hand in a small circle.

“A Tevinter practice,” she muttered, those ageless eyes trailing along the white vines of his exposed skin, sorrowful and knowing, “Your _vallas_ , it is pure lyrium.”

Pride cringing at her impudent sympathy, Fenris snatched his hand away.

“Explain what is happening,” he bit, crawling inside his veins, “I am tired of being talked around.”

From behind, Merrill breathed, “Don’t be rude, Fenris!”

“It is alright, _da’len_ ,” the Keeper smiled briefly over his shoulder before returning to the core matter, “When I read Merrill’s letter, I wrongfully deduced that the magic at work was a simple scorch mark. I can feel, however, that it is a true flame.”

“Speak plainly. Your metaphor means nothing to me.”

Hand flicking in irritation, Hawke said, “If you’d stop sniping every three seconds, maybe you’d learn something.”

“If it is you speaking, then that is highly unlikely.”

“What she means by a ‘scorch mark’, _Fenris_ ,” she forced his name out through her teeth, attempting to gain control of the situation before this turned into another juvenile slap fight, “is what the rest of us mages refer to as a ‘splash’.”

There came a murmured _“bugger and balls”_ from Anders, just to make this that bit more foreboding. The grass rippled again, the tips of the blades stabbing and tickling at Fenris' feet excitedly, as though to say _"wait; the best part is coming"_.

“Should this mean something to me, mage?”

Ruffled by his waspishness, Hawke pushed a thumb into the inner cup of her eye. “A splash in magic is just as the term suggests. It is a magical excess or rebound… a side-effect, if you will, from a volatile spell or artefact. Usually the effect is just something like nausea or a case of mana rash, but it can be more serious.”

“I can attest to that,” Anders interrupted unreservedly, “I once fussed around with a golem lightning crystal the Circle had stashed away in its vaults. Bloody thing turned me into a walking thunderbolt; for a week no one could touch me without having their eyebrows zapped off.”

Noting Hawke’s answering grin, Fenris quickly continued, determined to not let her be side-tracked by that abomination’s antics. “You say we are not experiencing one of these “splashes”, correct?”

She sighed, humour already gone. “Correct. What I have suspected – and Marethari has just confirmed that suspicion – is that what happened on Sundermount actually resulted in a solid, self-contained spell.”

“Just what are you saying?”

“That, unlike with Anders, our problem isn’t simply going to go away.”

A log in the campfire popped, the responding flare making the dim shadows upon the ground dance sinisterly - if the fire had anything to do with that at all, of course. Stomach plummeting, he pushed, “There better be more to that statement.”

Hawke’s lips pursed, colour blooming in her cheeks. “Try to remember that I’m in the same boat here. But yes, since you’re about to have broody little kittens, there _is_ more.”

“Then hurry up and say it!”

“I told you to stop interrupting!”

“ _Len, dar’atisha_ ,” the Keeper interjected, her palm rising in a gentle command for silence, “I fear that your quarrels will only make the coming days harder.”

Hawke whipped back to the Keeper, hostility replaced by pleading. “ _Please_ tell me you can help us.”

“Yes, I believe I can break the spell.”

“But?”

“But this particular spell only exists by chance; its inception was very unusual, and will require a study of the ancient magicks and time to prepare a suitable ritual. I do already have a potion in mind, but it alone will take longer to brew than I fear you would prefer.”

There was a pause as the obvious question, the real crux of the issue, hovered over them like the blade of a guillotine.

“How… how much time?”

Those luminescent eyes drew them both in, that blade teetering above. “Weeks beyond a month, I would say. Longer if the ritual fails.”

There was a chorus of hisses and disbelieving exclamations from their companions, and Keeper Marethari was a picture of pity. Fenris and Hawke stared at the old elf – or through her, would perhaps be more appropriate.

The winds of Sundermount cheered, kicking up dirt and leaves. The chill trickled into Fenris' marrow.

“Weeks,” he repeated, no colour in his voice.

 _Beyond_ a month. Not even a definitive time frame.

This was just like that moment on the study floor; Hawke at one side of the hearth, he at the other, an impossible situation hanging between.

The words were heavy in his head; heavy and growing and muting everything – even his anger was dulled. Anger, as with all of his other emotions, was being buried underneath that same thick, grey sense of surrealism he’d experienced back in that study.

There was no denial to which to cling this time however, and though he had been unwittingly waiting for this moment all day, the truth was dense and misshapen, taking an age to squeeze properly into his mind.

The truth was, he could be chained to Artemis Hawke for a very, very long time.

Around them, ranting and consolation swirled, but all was a distant hum. All but Hawke, and this bond, and _those words_ , had fallen out of existence. He was gripped by a despairing resignation; this tether already felt closer to a noose, and he could not fathom how he and Hawke would last another day, let alone an indeterminate number of weeks.

At his side, Hawke was as steeped in thought as Fenris, arms folded tightly to her chest, her head moving in a tiny, unconscious nod. She was faraway.

Around them, the hysteria continued.

 _“This is a joke. We can’t leave her stuck to him for a month!”_

 _“I don’t think the Keeper’s big on pranks, Blondie.”_

 _“I told you, the Keeper will do the best she can, Anders.”_

 _“That I will._ Din abelas, _all will be made right.”_

The group had begun to say more, but Hawke held her hand up to the side where all could see it, cutting off this new flow before it began. There was still a deeply pensive expression on her face, and she surprised each of them by saying, “If you’ll all excuse us for a moment, I’d like to speak with Fenris.”

Without waiting for a response, she retrieved the gauntlet he’d discarded and then gave a head jerk to indicate that they should walk. Too adrift in contemplation to debate the request, he stoically took the armor back from her outstretched hands and let her lead them away from the group.

They ambled, moving with no more speed or purpose than one would expect from an afternoon stroll, the recent revelation turning even their steps thoughtful. The eyes of their companions were on them, and Master Ilen scowled as they passed his work area, but Hawke didn’t seem perturbed – though, it was hard to tell _what_ she was feeling or thinking right now.

Once just beyond the border of the camp, she stopped and turned to Fenris, a timid smile on her lips. After having suffered her cold shoulder since last night’s debacle, her friendliness, however tentative, was rather welcome.

“It looks like we’ll be spending a lot of time together.” She tried to sound light but there was anxiety coming out of her pores; it was rare to see her even remotely nervous.

Not wishing to disturb this fragile turn-around, he merely raised his eyebrow inquisitorially and said, “It would seem so.”

In her usual manner, she clasped her hands behind her back, and there was comfort in seeing the familiar gesture.

“Last night...” she faltered, her face tilting away, and Fenris seized from head to toe, already preparing to go on the defensive. Her face returned, wearing an expression both apprehensive and determined, and her voice was much the same. “You really hurt me, Fenris.”

Hawke was the most open person he'd ever known; affection was _shovelled_ out to those she cared for, personal boundaries held little meaning, and she was often too honest for comfort. However, he'd never thought her _vulnerable_ before.

The armor this woman wore was subtle and masterfully-crafted, and until now, he'd had really no idea just how seldom she took it off.

The instinct to challenge quietened, his guilt - and this desperate need for it to be _gone_ \- emerging like vomit instead. Eyes flicking away to a random spot of grass, he murmured thickly, “I know.”

A handful of seconds passed, during which the only sounds to be heard were the babble of the camp behind and the now-bored rustle of nature. It was up to Hawke to lead this - whatever _this_ was - for Fenris had no idea where his feet were.

“Are you even... sorry?” she whispered finally, more timorous than he ever cared to hear again.

The actual words were too large to make it out of his throat, but he managed to nod his head. Admitting to feeling something so potentially exploitative as _remorse_ was hardly easy for Fenris, the muscles in his neck feeling as stiff as though they had never been used before.

She released a breath that he was fairly certain was supposed to go unheard. It was a shallow, quavering noise that belied her emotion and made his pulse lose its rhythm. Sounding stronger than before though, she said, “I'm sorry too.”

The apology was so unexpected that it drew his eyes back. She'd softened significantly; a countenance so much more appealing than the thinned mouth and hard brow he'd been suffering since last night.

Attempting to sound flippant, he pressed, “Oh?”

Her lips curved into a coy smile. “You're not a nob face.”

The weight on Fenris' shoulders lifted so fast that he felt light-headed. A small, amused snort betrayed his relief, his lungs swelling as though they hadn't known oxygen for days. After a prim cough into his hand, he said wryly, “I appreciate the recant.”

Though he could tell that his reaction pleased her, some of Hawke's shyness returned; her expression was still vaguely burdened. “Look, there’s- there's nothing we can do about this,” she shook her marked wrist, “so I’d… really like it if we could call a truce.”

This was the true source of her nervousness; she was worried that Fenris would spit on her white flag. He recalled the pain in her eyes last night, the way it had burrowed into his chest and festered…

“I would like that too,” he found himself saying, and he must have taken a step at some point, because they were now standing closer than they had been before.

The apprehension in her face smoothed away, leaving behind a gaze as bright as polished jade and a smile so perfect that he had the inane urge to trace it with his fingers.

“A truce then, Ser Fenris,” she quipped, holding out her hand; a Fereldan custom meant to seal an agreement - she'd even used the honorific of her homeland.

It was only once their fingers were wrapped around each other, his gauntlet still not refitted, that Fenris realised how he hadn’t even hesitated to let Hawke touch him. Her hand seemed to shrink inside his grasp; a soft, pale thing that somehow made his entire arm feel like it had just been coiled in warm satin.

They shook hands once, a flash of pink darkening Hawke’s cheeks; it contrasted sweetly with the green of her eyes, which were very vibrant at this moment. He perhaps stared too long, for the mysterious blush intensified and then Hawke’s hand was swiftly gone, hidden behind her back once more.

His skin prickled with cold.

Voice lower than usual, he said, “Shall we?”

“We shall,” Hawke agreed, and they walked back across the camp, Fenris pulling his gauntlet back on as they went.

As they approached, Varric folded his arms and said, “I owe myself five sovereigns; I was convinced you were battling to the death.”

Hawke’s laughter was sweeter now that it wasn’t edged in hostility. “Not today.”

“You are preparing to leave, I take it?” the Keeper asked and Hawke nodded, “Very well. Know that I will eventually need you both to return to aid me with my preparations. I will send word.”

Merrill lowered her head in respect. “ _Ma serannas_ , Keeper. Please let me know if there is anything I can do to help.”

“Yes, you have our _deepest_ thanks,” Hawke added, gratitude tied around her words like thick, shining ribbons, “Isn’t that right, Fenris?”

He grunted, hoping that would be enough.

“ _Fenris?_ ”

Obviously not.

“Thank you,” he muttered, cursing this truce.

“You are more than welcome,” the elder smiled, a dim twinkle of mischief in her eyes, “Be fair to each other and some good may yet come of this. _Dareth shiral_.”

Given the news they’d just received, Hawke and Fenris left the camp in better spirits than was probably appropriate. This outcome had been less than a surprise though, and after reaching an accord, however tenuous, the day felt closer to a victory than a loss.

Above all else, they needed to survive this tether, and in that at least, they were united.

Their companions fumed or joked for the first portion of the journey home, all of which was ignored with relative ease. Well, except for Anders’ sulking, to which Fenris paid deliberate attention – it was far too gratifying to block out.

The return walk seemed to go much faster beyond that first leg, though that might have been because he and Hawke had become engaged in _another_ passionate bicker; specifically, how to spend their evening once back in Kirkwall:

Hawke wanted to spend an hour at _The Hanged Man_ , but, as Fenris had pointed out nearly a dozen times, Orana was cooking mutton tonight – _mutton_. As in _roast._

Their armistice was already being tested, apparently.

Occasionally, in between breaths, he would catch a glimpse of Varric, who would be watching their argument every time and smiling like he had a secret. Likely, the dwarf was simply entertained or keeping some sort of score, but Fenris didn’t dare risk interrupting his repartee with Hawke in order to investigate properly – he was _determined_ to have his way.

So, Varric just continued to smile, and Fenris continued not to care.

Absently, he was also aware of Anders’ stormy mood and Merrill’s peculiar mooning (though, _everything_ she did was peculiar) but they were hardly worth the effort of further scrutiny. Even when they spoke – to each other _or_ Fenris – their words registered as vaguely as their expressions.

Truthfully, the sky could have split open and rained silver, and he might have never felt the coins hit his head.

Because, though it defied reason, arguing with Hawke over roast mutton had just seemed so much more important than anything else.

✷

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of an unofficial Act One :). I hope you guys are enjoying it so far! I will try to get some more up today, but the process is a bit time-consuming and I've got some stuff I need to do (real life is totally lame).
> 
> Anyway, this note was mainly just an excuse to say hi. So hi :D!


	16. Chapter 16

Once they had accepted the situation, life became more bearable. They were learning the technicalities of living with the tether, even if they had not quite yet learned how to live with _each other._

The conversation they’d had on Sundermount had helped, and there was at least a chance that they’d make it out of this trial alive.

Hawke’s household adjusted easily, and had proven savvy in catering to Fenris and Hawke’s _special needs_. Just as Orana always fluffed her mistress’ pillows and made the bed, she would take care to tidy and prepare _Fenris’_ “bed”, never even once commenting on the guest’s decision to sleep on the floor. Night clothes were always washed, folded, and ready on his blanket in the evening, which was a far cry from the days of rummaging around in his planter box for a crumpled pair of trousers.

Most of their days were spent running non-risk errands for Aveline, eating lunch with Varric, or helping Orana with the shopping – anything to keep them occupied. Evenings were usually spent in the study, where Hawke would write her journal entries and Fenris would either tend his armor (now he’d taken to meticulously sharpening its various edges) or converse with Bodahn. A trader and traveller at heart, the dwarf had a wealth of tales to share, not least among them his time with Hawke’s cousin, the famed Hero of Ferelden. Bodahn was not terrible company; he was excessively polite but never dishonest, and his devotion to his addled son spoke volumes about his character. Sometimes, Sandal would join them in the study, either to play quietly with Claymore or to offer his own excited commentary to his father’s stories. The boy’s innocence was intriguing to Fenris; such a quality had not existed in Tevinter, and it was almost as rare in Kirkwall – it was easy to forget that there was innocence in the world at all.

Unfortunately, the boy referred to Fenris as _‘Elf Shiny’_ , which he could have done without – according to Hawke, Sandal had decided that Fenris was, in fact, a walking, talking enchantment.

Orana, who had been skittish around Fenris for the first few days, had calmed noticeably. The woman, as with many Tevinter slaves, was familiar with his past as Danarius’ bodyguard, and he’d been afraid that she would instinctively kowtow in his presence here. Life in Kirkwall- Hawke - had been good to her though, and whilst Orana might never be brave enough to embrace herself as a whole, free being, she was learning to be proud and how to live without fear.

For ten days he and Hawke had been bonded, and Fenris felt as though he was managing fairly well.

At least until this morning.

During their adventures outside of Kirkwall over the years, Hawke had _always_ been the first of the camp to wake in the morning. However, during Fenris' stay in this estate, he had roused before her every time (barring that fiasco of their first day). The reason for this was no mystery -

It was also large, slobbery, and once again _sitting on Fenris’ chest._

“ _Tio rucomae an ignitor, canus!_ ” he wheezed, shoving Claymore off his aching lungs. As per usual, the mutt was unhappy to leave his bed partner, huffing indignantly as he was swept to the side.

Over a week of this and the dog still hadn’t learned.

A breathy whistle signalled that Hawke had just woken. Good.

“C’mere boy,” she murmured, eyes not even open yet, “E’s jussa grump.”

With a harrumph, Claymore trotted away.

Digging the heel of his palm into a throbbing temple, Fenris retorted, “This has nothing to do with me being a grump,”

Hawke coughed a sleepy laugh. “You jus’ amitted to being a grump.”

He muttered an invective under his breath, sat up, and shuffled to face the bed.

“Wake properly, damn it,” he complained, realising he was starting to sound as childish as Hawke. It was impossible to have a proper discussion with the woman when half her face was shoved in a pillow and half her brain was still in the Fade.

“Yeah yeah,” came her muffled response. With a rather noisy yawn, Hawke finally opened her eyes, blinking several times to clear away the blur of sleep. “See, awake. Wha’s up?”

Not entirely convinced that she _was_ awake, but too annoyed to wait any longer, Fenris announced, “I wish to spend some time in my mansion.”

She didn’t bother getting up, but at least propped her head on a palm. “What’s wrong with my house?”

“Your dog won’t stop sleeping on me.”

Claymore made a sulky, rumbling sound from the other side of the bed.

“He just likes you.”

“His affection will be my death.”

Hawke sighed and rubbed her eyes. “This isn’t just about Claymore, is it?”

“No...” he admitted, “I think it only fair that we occasionally stay in my manor as well.”

It had been more than a week since he'd been among his belongings (however few they might be), slept in front of his fire, or not been woken through animal-induced asphyxiation. He and Hawke would be living together for a long while, and though this estate had become somewhat familiar, the thought that he might be expected to live here the entire time was beginning to make Fenris antsy.

Hawke scrunched up her nose. “But my manor is clean.”

“Mine is… it will be fine.”

“There are corpses on the floor. As in _plural_.”

“They do not smell.”

“Wow, what a pitch; ‘come to my house, the dead bodies don’t stink’.”

Fenris glowered, not at all appreciating this resistance. “Object all you wish, but we are staying in my mansion tonight.”

Hawke flopped back down onto her pillow with a dramatic sigh. “We’re stopping by Anders’ clinic then.”

“What does that abomination have to do with any of this?”

“Nothing,” she smiled, lolling her head to look at him, “I bring him supplies every week. I was going to hold out, considering your propensity to bitch at each other, but this has changed my mind. If I’m agreeing to sleep in your gross, death trap of a house, then I think you can agree to one small trip to Darktown.”

“ _Fine_ ,” he said, the surrender chafing his throat, “but let us do it quickly.”

✷

 

It was only when walking through Darktown that Fenris considered the value in wearing shoes. This place was, quite literally, a shithole. It was a city of waste, where there was no air, only stench, and each breath was a risk to your own health. The downtrodden and the lame were scattered amongst the filth like bits of garbage, their despair as potent as the odour of this place.

Hawke had always been too soft for the Undercity. It was far more noticeable now, when it was just the two of them and there was no dire business hurrying their steps. Anyone who looked at her with a sad expression was given coin, whether their woe was convincing or not.

It was difficult to see the softness as a weakness, though.

Fenris did not say anything against her actions, choosing to merely wait whenever she stopped (the crate of supplies wedged underneath his arm), and keep watch for anyone who might take advantage of her generosity. Maybe his days as a Magister’s bodyguard had bred this instinct, this urge to quietly look on and protect Hawke, regardless of what he felt for the mage.

But this didn’t feel like an obligation. This felt like something _voluntary_. He’d… certainly never watched Danarius the way he’d been watching Hawke, either.

It was _necessary_ to pay close attention down here though. It was only natural that he’d notice other, superfluous details. The fringe she had to keep blowing out of her eyes, the way she chewed the side of her lip whenever she contemplated a child’s bare feet, the way her skin gleamed amidst the shadows of this pit…

Noticing such things only meant that he had a keen eye.

When her coin purse possessed only dregs, Fenris became more a shepherd than a guardian. Taking an ‘out of sight, out of mind’ approach, he manoeuvred her away from beggars before she could properly view their sorrowful faces. The fetor of sick and rot intensified the closer they got to the clinic, it being situated in the heart of Darktown. Fenris rarely came here, and never before with less than three other people.

At the clinic doors, Hawke knocked in a special manner to signal that it was friend not foe about to enter ( _taptap-taptap-tap_ ) and then ushered Fenris inside. She was almost as paranoid as Anders when it came to keeping this place safe.

The trudge through Darktown had already prepared their nostrils, so the clinic’s odour was not such a shock. In fact, it smelled mostly like the squalor in which it was located, if only a tad more stale. That changed of course, depending on what ailments people carried inside, but Hawke and Fenris were spared anything too foul today.

“Please tell me that’s you, Hawke,” Anders whined, his back to them as he leaned over a brunette woman. She winced when he prodded some part of her abdomen.

To the side of the cot, a giggling girl of around six was loosely wrapping a toddler boy in a bandage she’d, presumably, pilfered from somewhere in the clinic; they had the same brown hair of the woman. A clatter in the corner to the right of the doors drew Fenris’ attention to another brunette child – a boy not much older than the girl – clambering up a medical trolley. The jar of barley sugars on the shelf above was undoubtedly his goal.

The assistants were preoccupied with cases, only able to cast agitated looks at the children using the clinic as a playground.

Hawke laughed and walked towards the children by the cot. “Don’t worry doc, I’m on it.”

This wasn’t going anywhere good, but in the absence of choice, Fenris dumped the crate on the ground and followed.

“I’m sorry,” the woman panted as they approached, her face pinched and sweaty. They were now able to see the purple bruising that covered half her stomach. “Ruddy cart winged me while we was walking through the market.”

“Don’t fret,” Hawke waved off her concern, “it looks like the young’uns are having a merry old time.”

The woman smiled weakly. “Tie ‘em to a post if you got to.”

Hawke squatted to the ground so that she was at the same level as the little girl. The mad clattering by the clinic doors continued.

“Are you going to tie me to a post?” the girl asked immediately, her brown eyes wide with worry, the bandage now forgotten and draping in one hand. Next to her, the toddler merely watched in fascination through the gap of his bindings.

Hawke snorted. “Not if you keep looking at me like _that_. I’m Artemis; what’s your name?”

“June,” she said tentatively.

“Lovely,” Hawke smiled, and then plucked the bandage out of the girl’s hand, “I’ll just take that, June.”

The child pouted in resignation and sang, “O- _kay_.”

“You and I are going to save the good healer’s lolly supply,” she rose to her feet and then bent back down to heave up the toddler, bandages and all, “and Serah Fenris is going to unwrap your brother.”

Fenris, who had been watching the exchange with great interest, was sucked firmly back to reality. “What?”

Hawke spun around, eliciting a happy gurgle from the babe – and then held the thing out to _Fenris_. Anders scoffed loudly as he worked.

“You. Baby. Watch,” she said, now pressing the toddler into his arms and forcing him to action. He fumbled stupidly, having no clue how to hold one of these and certain he would accidentally disembowel it with his gauntlets. The scramble ended with the toddler lying on his folded arms, one pudgy arm and leg drooping awkwardly off the side. It writhed in discomfort – though there was no way it could have felt more uncomfortable than Fenris at that moment.

Hawke pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, laughter shaking behind.

“If you say _anything_ , I will–”

“Not in front of the _kids_ , Fenris,” she teased, holding her hand out for June, who took it merrily.

He pursed his lips, the tips of his ears heating. The toddler murmured impatiently and wriggled, and Fenris was forced to dip and shift his weight, like one did with a sack of rice that was pouring out all its grain.

“ _Mite somniara malin_ ,” he grit, and with a grin, Hawke moved past to deal with the runt in the corner. So as not to break range, he followed, glad to move away from the abomination – and the mother, in case he somehow managed to traumatize her child in this short time.

The boy frowned up at him, not at all pleased with this arrangement, so at least they had something in common. The bandage tangled around its limbs was probably no help to its temper, either.

Just at the edge of the boundary, he squatted and let the toddler slide carefully from his arms. It immediately tried to crawl away.

“ _No_ ,” Fenris dragged it back, “Stay.”

The baby whined, and Fenris attempted to unravel the bandage as quickly as possible. His efforts were hindered by the boy’s wriggling and desperate desire to be free. It burbled angrily, its plump hand beating Fenris’ fingers defiantly.

“ _Placilesi, nocet minian_ ,” he ground through his teeth, slipping back out of the common tongue and supremely grateful that no one could understand his words.

The toddler let out a quick, shrill shout, and then smacked Fenris across the face.

“I am trying to help you,” he hissed, and yanked the bandage free, “Why can you not understand?”

Its fat lower lip quivered. Its face reddened.

“No. I _forbid_ you.”

The petulant ball of flesh started bawling. Impossibly large tears rolled down its face, and its arms flailed wildly, hands hitting any part of Fenris they could reach.

“S-stop that!” he tried, to no avail. Nothing this small should have been able to produce this kind of volume; it was a banshee in an infant’s body.

“Just… go to Hawke…” he nudged its shoulder, hoping it might crawl away, but that just made it flail harder, “I do not know what to do with you! _Hawke!_ ”

It was only then that he became aware of the hysterical laughter coming from the left. One hand clasped carefully on the baby’s shoulder, Fenris turned to find Hawke crouched over, struggling to breathe. The two children were on the floor dividing candies, being utterly useless.

The baby let out a loud, long wail and tried to writhe out of the elf’s grasp.

“ _Benexi futos_ , just _do_ something, mage!” he called, ears ready to melt off they were so hot.

Hawke managed to stumble over, and it was amazing she could see at all with the tears that were in her eyes.

This was a humiliation he’d never known.

“Shh, it’s ok,” she cooed, and picked up the yowling snotbag. Although, Fenris had to wonder if the placation was actually directed at him.

Cheeks burning like twin suns, he rose to his feet and kicked the offending bandage out of his line of sight. Hawke was bouncing the baby in her arms, which, infuriatingly, had already toned its screeching down to a watery hiccough.

“Poor bubba,” she nuzzled its cheek with her nose, “did the big, bad wolf try to eat you?”

“I did not do anything.” He folded his arms and scowled at the baby.

She just smirked and continued her dandling. The crying had stopped completely now. In fact, the child was _enraptured_ with Hawke’s face.

And now that he really paid attention, he could understand its compulsion.

There was such a look of adoration there, of sweetness, that it took a moment to reconcile this as the woman Fenris knew. Hawke was not a cold person by any means, but he had never seen her like this, almost sappy in her affection.

There was a tug in his chest. Like a yearning, but he didn’t know for what.

Hawke looked at Fenris over the baby’s shoulder, her lips tilting into a mysterious smile. Some distant part of his mind recognised that his own expression was far too intense, but he was too lost in thoughts that didn’t make sense and those _eyes_ and that _smile_ , that he could do nothing about it.

There were footsteps and Hawke’s gaze shifted, her lids fluttering as though she’d just come out of a daydream. That smile drifted away.

Fenris glared at the baby, deciding that these swirling emotions were _its_ fault.

The footsteps belonged to Anders, who bypassed the elf completely and stood before Hawke.

“Thank you so much,” he said heavily, smoothing down his coat sleeves. The abomination smirked at the baby and shook its foot with his thumb and forefinger. The three looked so… _familial_.

The picture brought an acidic taste to Fenris’ mouth.

“It was no problem,” she said, and if he hadn’t been watching so hard, he’d have missed the way her eyes dulled when Anders took the baby from her arms, “I daresay you’ll need to replenish your store of barley sugars though.”

Indeed, the children had pocketed the jar’s whole supply.

“As long as I’m not the one who has to deal with the sugar high, I’m alright with that,” Anders mimicked Hawke’s previous bouncing motion, “Merrill should be here soon, so I’ll send her on a sweets run.”

“Merrill’s been helping you in the clinic?”

“Well, yes… you don’t remember? _The Hanged Man_? She practically exploded at the prospect?”

“That’s right,” she murmured absently, more interested in poking the baby’s nose, “How’s that working out?”

“It’s been…” he trailed oddly, half-smiling, half-frowning, “It hasn’t been too bad.”

Not paying all that much attention, Hawke desisted the nose-poking and jerked her head to the crate still sitting in the middle of the floor. “We just came to drop off those supplies, but if you need us to watch these guys until Merrill arrives, we’d be happy to stick around.”

Fenris balked. “We would?”

“Sure we would.”

Anders laughed. “No, Felice is all patched up and will be leaving in a moment. I appreciate the offer though. I’m sure she would too.”

“Oh,” there was that flicker of disappointment again, “Oh, well, alright then. I guess we’ll just be on our way.”

They lingered for a few minutes whilst Hawke and Anders conversed, and Fenris was happy to be invisible. He had no desire to speak with the abomination, and was glad for the opportunity to bring order to the snarl inside his head.

His efforts proved relatively ineffective, for once away from the clinic, he blurted, “You enjoy spending time with children.”

It was such an idiotically obvious statement, but it came out like a revelation – which was how it felt.

“Very much so,” she confirmed, offering a confused smile, “Why do you sound so surprised?”

“I do not recall you ever expressing a desire to have a family.”

It was a very personal remark; that it had come from Fenris of all people, only accentuated its delicate nature. They had never been on terms that would support this type of confidence.

The way Hawke stumbled over a fallen beam was indication enough that she’d been surprised.

“I… no, I don’t suppose I ever have,” she said in a strange tone.

“ _Do_ you desire a family?”

This boldness had come from nowhere. He didn’t even know why he was asking these things, _grilling_ about these things. He’d never wondered this about anyone, not even Aveline, who was the cluckiest person of his acquaintance.

Though he probably should have been watching for hazards and pickpockets, he could not help his eyes from wandering to the side. This was how he saw the shadow that passed over Hawke’s face.

“Families are for other people.”

He frowned, not accustomed to hearing her voice drop in such a way. “Other people?”

The conversation had her ruffled. Though not entirely certain what his intentions had been, upsetting her had definitely not been one of them.

Of course, now he wanted to know _why_ she was upset.

She brought her hands to nestle in her lower back, one fiddling with the robes while the other held her wrist. “It would probably be better if we didn’t discuss this.”

The refusal should have been expected. It certainly should not have affected him.

But it stung.

“You do not trust me,” he said tonelessly.

With a sigh, Hawke stopped walking and spun on her feet to face him – even if her eyes were uncharacteristically averted.

“It’s not that,” she said, discomfort threading through every part of her, from words to body, “If you’re curious, then yes, I would like very much to have a family.”

“Then why not simply say that?”

“It’s complicated.”

“I do not see how.”

She finally looked at him, her eyes abyssal, endless and unnerving. “I am a _mage_ , Fenris.”

Regret clamped down on his insides. His mind reformed the sentence to what she had _truly_ meant:

 _It's bad enough that nobody wants a mage, I don't need to hear you agree._

If only he were able to go back and not begin this conversation.

He didn’t know what was more troubling, that for a few moments he’d forgotten about Hawke’s magic, or that he wished he hadn’t been reminded.

That hole in her gaze was old and deep, and not a sight he wished to preserve in memory. There was no pain he could see (though it _had_ to be there), but worse was what he _could_ see.

Resignation. Strong, long-rooted resignation.

A mage so resolved to lead a solitary life, for whatever reason, would have normally earned Fenris' commendation. After all, mages should _not_ breed – that was simply a harsh truth. A truth that should have no exceptions.

But Hawke with that child… it had looked right, even when it should have looked wrong.

He could think of nothing to say. None of his thoughts meshed enough for him to be able to form a response that was not dishonest in some way. There might have been something of this discord written on his face, for Hawke stopped waiting for him to speak.

She smiled more brightly than he thought was natural, and said, “Life has granted me boon enough by simply allowing my freedom. I have a family of a _different_ kind; I am content, truly.”

Hawke never complained about the hands life dealt her, never beseeched the Maker for answers, even when times were darkest. Despite their differences, this had always been a trait which had met Fenris’ approval – one he’d even admired.

She did not complain nor dwell now either, at least not beyond the privacy of her mind. Even so, the loneliness was there, and it was so obvious to him now that Fenris could only marvel at how he had missed it all these years.

“What about you?” she asked, resuming their pace, “Have you ever thought about having a family?”

It was his own fault for opening the subject.

“Of course not,” he said automatically.

She frowned, like his answer saddened her. “You act as though I just asked you something ridiculous.”

It made him uncomfortable that she would expect anything other than this reaction. It meant that she saw him _very_ differently to how he saw himself. And as his opinion of himself was less than generous…

“It _was_ a ridiculous question.”

“How so?” she asked petulantly, not watching her steps as she peered up at him and stumbling slightly as a result, “You are free, young, and would make a good father.”

Heat engulfed his ears, the compliment as touching as it was misguided. There was a spark of anger amidst the furling warmth, however; a knee-jerk response to the blatant, embarrassing _inaccuracy_ of Hawke's claim. Though unintentional, the compliment had only brought Fenris' inadequacies into focus.

Father. Husband. The slave inside him _laughed_ the words.

“Were you not there for that catastrophe a few moments ago?” he argued to himself as much as Hawke, “The infant took one look at me and dissolved into conniptions.”

“Well, you _are_ covered in spikes.”

“Precisely,” he combed metal fingers through his hair, growing irrationally distressed, “Fath– men with children do not cover themselves in spikes, Hawke.”

Just imagining having to be responsible for such a tiny, frail creature splashed him with terror. He’d only been responsible for _himself_ for seven years; and what he’d been before that… the degradation he’d suffered, the horrific, vile things he’d done – _willingly, happily_ …

Fenris was hardly worthy of something so idyllic and beautiful as a family.

Respecting that he wished to drop this discussion, Hawke said only one more thing, a rather enigmatic smile upon her face…

“You won’t wear those spikes forever.”

✷


	17. Chapter 17

“Was it entirely necessary to pack so much?”

Hanging from Fenris' right hand was a large, red travel case, and if he’d not seen it packed himself, he’d have sworn the majority of its contents were actually rocks. It was fortunate that his particular weapon discipline awarded him great strength, otherwise he’d have possibly dislocated a shoulder merely trying to lift this monstrosity. _How_ precisely Fenris had been wrangled into carrying Hawke’s luggage across Hightown was currently beyond his memory.

The “burden” of carrying the basket supper Orana had prepared for them (sourdough, spiced ham and dried apple rings) had fallen to Hawke, which she did with all the ease of someone whose arm was _not_ trying to fall off. She twisted her wrist back and forth as they walked, twirling the basket and looking all the world like they were on their way to a cosy picnic. “If I’m going to be spending as much time as I think I am in your magnificently decrepit manor, then I think I can be forgiven a few books and an extra bar of soap.”

“You are not the one carrying them.”

“Nope,” she said brightly.

Though the sun was on its descent, Hightown was still a bustle of activity, and its many citizens were not subtle in their gawking. The mysterious, marked elf who haunted _That Mansion_ possessed a degree of infamy around these parts, his widely recognised association with the Lady Amell only fuelling the intrigue. It was rare that he should be seen with her alone, and an _anomaly_ that he should be seen carrying what was clearly her luggage towards his home.

“We are being watched,” he said, glowering at a flock of whispering noblewomen until they started and scurried apart.

“That we most certainly are,” Hawke mused, surreptitiously raking the smattering of onlookers, “Surely you are accustomed to people staring at you by now, though?”

The question was not mean-spirited; it had simply never been Hawke’s way to shy away from the subject of his markings. The impertinence often put his teeth on edge, but he could also appreciate that she never treated him like a victim.

“Of course I am accustomed,” he said impatiently (and wanting to hurl this accursed suitcase down the mansion district staircase they were now ascending), “but they are not gossiping about my markings this time.”

Many times this week, he had been spotted entering and exiting the Hawke estate. It was an invitation for slander, and this would surely inflame the issue.

“I am aware of what they are discussing,” she informed airily.

Skeptical of this aloofness, he asked, “It does not bother you?”

No one could play the nonchalant act better than Hawke, and though Fenris still wasn't totally confident in his ability to discern act from reality, he was not totally clueless anymore either. There was an extra fervour to the way she twirled that basket now, a second where her gaze flickered away, that made him think that, at the very least, there was more on her mind than what she'd chosen to say aloud.

After a peculiar delay, she answered, “It only bothers me if it bothers you.”

A straightforward sentiment from anyone else; from Hawke, it was but a cloak. Words to hide other words.

“I never understand you,” he confessed frustratedly, searching her face for clues as he unlocked the door to his mansion.

With an air of playfulness, she spun around and backed into the house, the door pushing open with her steps. “Perhaps you one day will.”

It was doubtful that he would ever understand this woman, but his traitorous pulse skipped anyway, startled by some fleeting revelation. It was akin to what Fenris experienced when a memory tried to surface – a flash of perfect recognition, only to dissolve faster than it materialised. It was powerful and then it was nothing.

The moment gone, he followed inside and shut the door behind them.

“Ah,” Hawke said, turning around and sweeping her free arm in one large, dramatic arc, “Home sweet Wasteland!”

He skulked past, eager to be free of this travel case. “It is not a wasteland.”

That was blatantly untrue, and even he could recognise how absurd it was to defend this place.

The house was a nod to dilapidation. In the five years he’d lived here, Fenris had only tidied the messes he’d made personally: bottles of wine he’d emptied and any clutter on the few bits of furniture he used. The chaos left behind by Danarius remained untouched, the unused furniture left to gather dust or rot, any clothing, documents, or artwork suffering the same fate.

The walls all bore ugly murals of grime and peeling paper, the least fortunate also sporting scorch marks or demon ichor. The floors were hardly better, the sections not layered with dust, dirt or filth, only spared for the trash or corpses offering their protection.

As terrible the manor's condition might have been, Fenris had no interest in cleaning up his old master’s mess. That was not his world anymore.

“Question for you,” Hawke piped as they scaled the staircase, her voice echoing in the vast emptiness, “why _are_ there always dead people lying around here?”

“I have told you this. They are the same bodies, preserved by blood magic. It is an old Magister ruse intended to frighten trespassers.”

“So they _are_ the same bodies. Here I thought that people had just started coming here to die.”

Waking up with Claymore on his chest every morning might have actually been preferable to this new arrangement. Fenris hadn't really thought this through.

After having spent so much time away, the flaws of the manor did seem more acute, though. The smell of must hung heavily in the air, sticking to nostril and tongue, tasting vaguely of rancid spices. The darkness irritated the eyes a little more, the cracked roof lantern and sporadic windows only allowing a mist of light to ease the gloom. It must have irritated Hawke as well, for once inside the bedchamber, she placed the basket of food on the table and made immediately for the fireplace.

Without ceremony, Fenris dumped the travel case by the bench-seat. The boom of the impact continued to tremble in his ears for several seconds, taking as long to settle as the dust that had been disturbed.

From her crouched position in front of the hearth, Hawke mumbled, “If you just snapped all my quills I’m going to make you go out and buy me new ones.”

Fenris leaned his great sword against the fireplace and then settled on the bench, a smirk twitching. “You would have to come with me.”

“Right,” the sudden roar of magical fire nearly smothered her voice, “Pretend I said something more threatening.”

She turned around on the rug, leaning back on her hands and sticking her legs out. They surveyed each other, feeling that ripple of surrealism. A tenuous comfort had been established during his time at Hawke’s estate, but this was very different territory. Here, there were no routines to which to cling.

This was new for both of them, and it almost felt, not like a situation, but… an occasion.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry,” she said, trying to ease the tension, “I vote that we have our baths and then crack open that basket.”

Fenris had _really_ not thought this through.

Heating instantly, he said, “That will be... there is a complication.”

“Such as?”

Hoping the influx of inappropriate images wasn’t somehow visible on his face, he explained gruffly, “The tub is sealed too far from the door.”

“Oh…” her brows zoomed upward to be engulfed by her fringe, “so we’d have to… in the same room…?”

It seemed so much worse coming from her mouth. She was seldom intentionally bawdy, and her wide-eyed response was worse than if she’d just cracked a joke – this made him feel like a lecher.

“Yes,” he said with determined stoniness.

This was nearly as awkward as that first night in her estate.

“I guess there’s nothing for it,” she said, a bit breathlessly, “We’ll just keep our backs turned and that’s that.”

Mercilessly, she didn’t even avert her eyes. They were big and alive with embarrassment, unguarded before him in a way that was entirely too tantalising. And with the firelight at her back to cast her face into shadow, their colour was darker; viridian.

They were, undeniably, lovely.

“-nris?”

 _Damn it_ , he’d been staring – intensely at that.

With a dismissive grunt, he hastily stood, shaken by the lack of control he’d had over his thoughts today.

✷

The bathroom was in the East Wing, which was always darker than the Main Hall, deprived as it was of the even the weak light which filtered through the roof lantern. Naturally adept at seeing in the dark and possessing an accurate mental map of the manor’s twists and turns, Fenris had never bothered replacing the candles in the wall brackets.

So, when light suddenly poured out into the hallway, the source of which was not unlike a small star floating atop Hawke’s open palm, it was as though looking upon a different house.

The magic aroused his lyrium, the sensation similar to someone lightly running their nails over his skin. The hitch of his breath was, thankfully, quiet enough to go unnoticed. With a clenched jaw, he hissed, “I would prefer if you did not cast so frivolously.”

“This is hardly frivolous,” she said incredulously, cringing as she stepped over a corpse, “It was black as the Deep Roads in here.”

Curse her human vision.

“At least have enough courtesy to give warning,” he persisted irritably.

Apart from lighting fires, it was not often that Hawke used magic outside of battle, at least when Fenris was around. He was not accustomed to feeling it without adrenaline or bloodlust pumping through his system, which had, apparently, dulled its impact. It licked lightly against his lyrium, warm and soothing and _intimate._

The shadows flickered as Hawke gestured impatiently with her star-hand. “Very well, but you can’t give me that _I-want-to-rip-your-heart-out_ expression every time I use magic.”

The picture she painted was enough to distract from the caress of her magic, a chill settling in his gut. _Hawke dead, chest open, eyes gone–_

“Agreed,” he said through his teeth, relieved that they were finally at the bathroom.

Once a few feet inside, Hawke halted. The floating star illuminated the room enough that she could appreciate it fully. While she scanned the surroundings, he relieved her of the clothes and soap she had tucked into her free arm.

“Fenris?”

“What?” he asked, piling everything on one of the two side tables.

“This is gross.”

He chuffed a small laugh, but said nothing, opening the tinderbox he kept by the bath lantern and setting to work on lighting its wick.

It was true; the bathroom was in no better state than the rest of the house. The exact colours of the large porcelain tiling and counter were difficult to determine, so thickly were they smeared with mould and dried mud. It could have been a grand room without the filth, without the piles of desiccated linens and the shattered mirror, but as long as the bath, basin and lavatory were clean and continued to work, Fenris did not care about its state in the least.

As soon as the lamp was lit, Hawke snuffed out the star with an easy fold of her hand. The new lighting was dim but sufficient, but most importantly, it didn’t involve magic. That titillating tingling withdrew, and Fenris was torn between sighing a breath of relief or a breath of frustration – it was rare enough for the pain in his markings to take a reprieve; it was rarer still when his markings actually felt _good._

It was routine now for Hawke to take the first bath, so whilst she prepared the water, he spread a raggedy drying cloth onto the floor nearby, giving them something other than dirty tiles to sit on while they waited for each other to wash.

The water stopped and they stared at each other, awkwardness thickening the air as surely as the steam.

“If you could–”

“Of course,” he whipped around, ear tips buzzing, “I’ll just… be here.”

He sat down, arms resting upon his knees, blood moving too quickly through his veins.

It should not have made a difference being in the same room, but it did. The moisture clung to him, the smell of soap was not trapped behind a door; he was undeniably _here_ , and behind him, Hawke was–

 _Merdos!_

Not only could he _hear_ her undress, but the lantern cast a shaky silhouette upon the wall. There was a click as the shadow unlatched something at the nape of its neck, and a slide of fabric as–

Fenris dipped his head, knowing he shouldn’t be watching this.

The shadow flickered at the top of his gaze, and he squeezed his eyes shut, the impulse to look tugging at his forehead like a puppet string.

There was a rustle and thud, signalling that Hawke had just let her robes fall. Fenris’ gut clenched – he couldn’t help it… he _wondered._

As far as he knew, in all these years, the only one of their companions to have seen Hawke in any state of undress was Aveline. It was common for the party to bathe in pairs whilst questing, but uncommon for Hawke to pair off with anyone other than her trusted Guard-Captain. Additionally, he could remember more than one occasion when she’d accompanied Merrill or Isabela, only to return unbathed.

It had never given him much pause, but now he was curious if Hawke was uncomfortable with her body.

The robes she wore were eye-catching in their prudishness, and even her nightwear was somewhat archaic. The idea that she might be self-conscious about her appearance had never occurred to him, especially when she was confident in nearly every other regard.

It was difficult to imagine that she could be unattractive beneath all that fabric. He already knew her skin to be a flawless white, and her eyes - a softer green than what was usually seen - had scattered his thoughts the first time he’d looked upon them... a memory he’d suppressed until now.

The water splashed, sucking Fenris from his musings. He opened his eyes, seeing via the silhouette that Hawke was finally in the bath.

It was impossible to discern detail, but it was clear that she’d let her hair down.

His mind stopped. Then it doubled back.

 _Hawke had let her hair down._

The knowledge that he’d never seen that hair unbound gripped him like a hand around his throat. Even with all the other, more obvious reasons that would motivate a man to peek, it was _this_ which had Fenris struggling.

The desire – and it _was_ a desire, _Vatara_ help him – to see her hair loose, to uncover the mystery of its length and texture, was so strong that his fingers curled to form tight, steel fists.

It was such a bizarre thing to want.

“This is a surprisingly nice bath,” came her voice. He tried to focus on the words, and not this insane itch to see her hair.

“This _was_ Danarius’ manor,” he reminded, impressed that his own voice was steady.

The tips of his talons pricked hard enough into his exposed palms to cause a sting, which was a sure sign that he needed to relax. He diverted his gaze from the shadow to something far less enticing (a dead houseplant), willing equilibrium to return. It might have been easier if he could not hear the gentle sloshing of water, or smell the heat-heightened cream scent of Hawke’s skin.

“That is true. Still, I was expecting something a bit less elegant.”

Genuinely curious now, he tilted his head back a little (which also made it harder for him to sneak glances at Hawke's silhouette in his side-view). “This _is_ less elegant. Magisters are disgustingly ostentatious.”

“I suppose when I think about Danarius–”

 _She thought about Danarius?_

“–my silly mind concocts images reflective of how I feel about him.”

It made no sense that she should feel anything for the tyrant; they had never even met. Fenris was going to point that out, truly, but instead, his mouth asked, “How do you feel?”

It was a pointless question that had come from nowhere. Why he had even asked, he didn’t know and surely did not care. Whatever the answer, it wouldn’t matter.

“How do you _think?_ ” she responded incredulously, the _splat_ of water hitting the floor suggesting that she had just gestured wildly, “His very existence offends me. I feel _ill_ that someone would inflict such suffering upon y– another being.”

The answer brought with it a dizzy sensation. Not just in the head, but in Fenris' stomach, in his chest.

He said nothing; his ability to string a coherent sentence had been swept away by this sudden wave of _feeling_.

Of course, Hawke had always been abhorred by Fenris' past (what few pieces of information he'd let slip over the years) – she was from a free land, a stranger to slavery. This reflex of horror was a large reason behind why he had endured the mage’s acquaintance for so long.

But… this opinion of hers didn’t sound like an impulse; this sounded like a _passion_ -

And that warmed parts of him that he hadn’t even realised were cold.

✷

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your awesome comments, guys! *Chest bumps everyone*
> 
> It's really cool to see some of the kinkmemers making their way over. I love you all to itty bitty pieces. Will post more as soon as I can! Hope everyone's having a funtastic Christmas.


	18. Chapter 18

Once back in the bedchamber, they settled on the rug before the fire, placing the basket of food and an abandoned bottle of Danarius' favoured wine between them. It was much colder here than in Hawke’s estate, so she had tied a maroon housecoat around her nightwear. Though the sun had long set, it was still a bit early for such clothing, but as they had no intention of leaving the house, neither had bothered to get changed into more time-appropriate attire.

Fenris continued to wear house shirts, though he was still not comfortable, no matter how soft the garment's cotton. When alone at night, he had usually worn a pair of trousers and nothing more, preferring to limit the amount of clothing rubbing against his lyrium. His armor was not so irritating, for it was formfitting, not constantly moving.

But Hawke was always around now, and as much as he wanted to avoid aggravating his markings, he wanted to avoid displaying the foul things more.

In front of the fire, she had her legs folded to the side, a crust of bread cradled on her lap in what was a very ignoble manner. Her hair – re-bound before he could see it loose – was drying fast this close to the hearth; red and orange shimmered through the gold, having already distracted Fenris from their conversation more than once.

He flicked his drooping sleeve back – _again_ – and sipped from the wine bottle. Lacking goblets or glasses, they simply passed the bottle between them.

Currently, Hawke was trying for the third time to pronounce the vintage’s name.

“Adagio–”

“No.”

“A… da–”

“ _No_.”

“Damn it!” she exclaimed, her hand flying up in frustration and stopping just short of smacking her forehead, “Why do I keep calling it that?”

He slid her the bottle of _Agreggio Pavali_ and plucked another apple ring from the red square of cloth they’d been piled upon.

“Either you have a particular penchant for music,” he quirked his eyebrow, “or your tongue was simply not meant to speak Tevinter.”

She grinned and reached for the bottle. “Nonsense. Toss me a different phrase.”

It had actually been a very pleasant supper, so much so that Fenris didn’t even wish to analyse the situation, for fear that doing so would cause it to sour. This was the first time in a while that they’d dined alone, and it had been remarkably comfortable thus far.

He idly tore the apple ring in half, watching her determined face with amusement as he complied. “ _Porubae vinel excium._ ”

She traced the lip of the bottle as she concentrated. “Pour… ubb… ay–”

“Your pronunciation is appalling.”

“Shh,” she giggled, and the sound soaked into him, “Pour-ubb-ay veen– er, veenle… eks… eks-um?”

He paused with a piece of dried fruit halfway to his mouth, one side of which pulled upward into a half-smile. “I would venture that half the Imperium has just burst into tears.”

She looked positively crestfallen. “Was it that bad?”

“Atrocious.”

“Did I at least get the _veenle_ part right? I thought that sounded right.”

“That was, irrefutably, the worst part.”

“Bugger.”

That darn apple might never make it to his mouth, especially now that he was actually _laughing_. Not even remotely embarrassed by her woeful linguistic skills, Hawke quickly followed his lead.

His laughter sounded rusty, not clear and round and infectious like its counterpart.

But it felt good.

Once Hawke had calmed enough, she said, “Alright, I get it, my Tevinter is tragically bad. Now tell me what I said – or sort of said.”

He cleared his throat, fighting to keep his amusement to a smirk. “ _I have drunk too much wine._ ”

That earned him an apple ring to the face.

“Pfft. I’ve barely had four sips.”

“Our definitions of ‘sip’ must differ.”

He was actually _teasing_ her. Maybe _he’d_ had too much wine.

Shaking her head, she plucked a piece of spiced ham from the basket. “Say something else.”

He gulped that elusive piece of fruit and asked, “What? Why?”

“I like the language,” she shrugged, “Even if everything else about the Imperium is vile, they can claim a beautiful tongue.”

“Hmm,” he reached for the wine, “I can understand that opinion; I might even think the same, if things had been different. It is difficult, however, to find the beauty in a language that you have only heard used to abuse or deceive.”

He hesitated before sipping the wine, having realised that he’d just spoken of his time in Tevinter. The life – the _mockery_ of a life – he’d had there was not something he enjoyed bringing up; it was enough that the atrocities he’d endured still haunted his thoughts, he did not need them verbalised as well.

Of course, Hawke was curious by nature, and he had opened the subject. “Might I ask a personal question? You are under no obligation to answer, if you find it distasteful.”

The surprise of hearing her ask for permission was not wiped from his face fast enough. Yet, she made no comment, simply sat there patiently, nibbling on a string of ham.

Tentatively, he nodded his head.

She lowered the piece of meat, and tried very hard with little success to keep the timidness out of her expression. “Are you… happy here?”

Of all the questions he expected to hear, that had certainly not made the list.

He’d thought to be asked for an account on the abuses he’d suffered, or if there was anything about the Imperium which he remembered with fondness, or even something ludicrous, like if he had been required to wear a golden set of smalls and lather in oil ( _no, Isabela_ ).

Rejections perfected through years of practise died in his throat. He had not rehearsed an answer for this question.

He didn’t _have_ an answer for this question.

He frowned down at the wine bottle, unable to meet her calm, earnest eyes. It was tempting to fix his face into a scowl and brush the inquiry aside; it was what he’d always done when a question unsettled him.

And he was very unsettled right now.

Eventually, in a voice which betrayed his pensiveness, he said the most honest thing he could manage. “I do not know.”

The statement was more telling than it seemed, and Hawke was no fool. It was madness that he had admitted such a thing to her, to someone he had actively _denied_ his confidence. There was something safe about where he was now though, in this room with its crackling fire, and the picnic supper, and the smell of wood smoke, wine and clotted cream.

There was also part of him which wondered what it might be like to have Hawke confide in _him._

“I… have no point of reference,” he continued, eyes still fixed on the bottle, “A slave learns quickly to resist such weakness.”

“How is happiness a weakness?”

His grip on the bottleneck had become very firm. “It is too easy to exploit.”

Though he was not watching her face, he could sense her hesitation. It was like the air itself had become restless.

“Do you still feel that way?” she asked quietly, sadness simmering just below the surface, “Like it’s not safe to be happy?”

“Do not try to counsel me, Hawke,” he snapped, and then took a swig of the wine, if only to focus on something other than this regrettable conversation.

A slave’s shortcomings were many, and most were lasting, deep... _inflicted_. A slave is shaped by its inability to think, to feel, and these were not concepts that a free person could ever properly grasp. Years of freedom – or, escape, at least – and Fenris was still breaking his chains. It made his stomach writhe with shame that Hawke should see the ones he still wore.

“I’m not trying to counsel,” she sighed, and he did know that, no matter his brashness, “You want to know what I think?”

“No.”

“I think that you _are_ happy here.”

He finally met her eye. There was such certainty in her tone, such light in her gaze, that his mood balked on its descent. In fact, he very nearly _laughed_. “You are very sure.”

She was smiling brightly. “I am.”

That was all she said.

There was no long-winded explanation or motherly platitude, just her simple opinion. Not long ago, he’d have interpreted her disposition as oblivious, as callow – and he’d have been utterly incorrect.

The basic truth was that Hawke just did not see Fenris as An Escaped Slave. So when it came to the subject of his past, there were no careful words…

There were just words.

The churning in his gut dissipated and became something else, something sweeter.

“I will think on it,” he finally said, a small smile quirking his mouth as he passed the wine.

They polished off the bottle slowly, only enough time for sips throughout the flowing conversation. Fenris had never spoken so much in a single sitting before, Hawke’s famed loquaciousness carrying him along like a leaf in a breeze. She spoke with her hands a great deal, and her expressions were engaging, almost as though she were forever reciting an epic tale – _not_ joking about the Hightown chandler’s uneven facial hair, the neighbour’s rat-like new hound, or Aveline’s secret affection for the colour pink.

It was not the worst evening he’d ever had.

Once the alcohol was gone and the fire had dimmed, the hour made itself known. Hawke packed the napkins and empty wine bottle back into the basket, and discomfort twisted its way into Fenris’ pleasant lassitude when he realised that he’d now have to broach the subject of sleeping arrangement.

Hawke rose, and he slid out of her way as she walked past to set the basket by the travel case still sitting next to the bench-seat. So concerned with his own apprehension, he did not realise that she’d stopped to retrieve something from the case until she was back and spreading a thin, green and brown quilt upon the rug.

“What are you doing?” he blurted.

“Making my bed, obviously. Though, you are welcome to share the blanket, of course.”

He did not know whether to feel embarrassed or relieved by her perceptiveness. Both, he decided.

“I– you may sleep in the bed, if you wish,” he offered reluctantly, hating the idea, “I could simply sleep over there instead.”

“But… you sleep in front of the fire, right?” she frowned.

He nodded, definitely leaning towards embarrassment now. As a slave, he’d never been allowed a bed, and free or not, his _body_ was accustomed to the floor. While he had no aversion to learning to sleep on a mattress, he _did_ have an aversion to sleeping on one which had once belonged to his old master.

The thought of Hawke lying in that bed made his skin crawl.

“Fire it is then,” she gave him a funny look, like he was absurd for suggesting she sleep anywhere else.

She turned to the fire and clapped her hands, magic provoking the flames back into a roar, and then slid the grate across. Closer to the bench than the hearth, she then settled underneath her blanket, and Fenris could only watch the entire process with dumb fascination.

Artemis Hawke was in his stolen, rundown manor, preparing to sleep on the floor with him. _Without complaint._

Big eyes blinking up at him, she asked, “Did you want to share?”

“No,” he said roughly, “Thank you.”

He cleared his throat and lowered awkwardly – _so awkwardly_ – to lie at her side, just at the edge of her blanket. There were barely three feet between them.

They laid there staring at each other.

She was so close. If so inclined, he could slip his hand beneath the blanket and touch her. The quilt outlined her arm, which was bent and resting on the rug between them. That meant her hand would be closest…

This felt like a dangerous line of thought.

“Goodnight,” he murmured, and quickly rolled over.

The glare of the fire did not shock away the image of those eyes like he’d hoped it would. He could still see them, wide and shy (her rare moments of timidness were iniquitously captivating), the reflection of light making them glimmer like precious stones.

Even with the fire at his front and the quilt as a barrier behind, he could clearly feel the heat of Hawke’s body. He closed his eyes, riding out the shudder which had passed through his blood.

“Goodnight, Fenris,” she whispered, and her voice, so soft and just _there_ , did not help matters.

He clung to his denial and his resolve, and silently begged the Maker that sleep would claim him soon.

✷


	19. Chapter 19

_“Fenris.”_

Hearing his name, hissed and urgent, snapped him from unconsciousness. He was met with total blackness, his mind ringing uncomfortably with the waking. There was a presence at his back, and his whole body tensed before he remembered that it was only Hawke. The fire was long dead, the room dark and cold as the Void.

 _“Fenris,”_ she whispered again.

“What?” he said thickly, rolling over to find Hawke sitting, her panicked expression just visible.

“Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?” he mumbled, unperturbed by her anxiety; he could not hear or sense anything out of the ordinary - excluding his unlikely bedmate, obviously.

 _“That!”_ She pointed towards the open door of the bedroom.

Knowing that he would have no peace until he indulged the woman, he sighed and trained his ears. There was a familiar scratching sound, like someone was rummaging.

Though, Fenris could already tell that it wasn’t a some _one_.

“Are you not a mage?” he complained, rubbing his eyes and sitting up, “Create a light.”

“But they’ll see it!”

“Just do it.”

“ _Fine_ ,” she tutted, and he could feel the stirring magic as a caress on his skin, “but if they come in and want their dirty way with... wait, is that a...”

Illuminated by the magical starlight was a rat as long as Fenris’ forearm, shredding a piece of parchment in the corner by the door. It started when the light hit it, beady little eyes staring right at them, paws and mouth stilling against the parchment.

 _“AAAAAH!”_ Hawke squealed, which had the rat bolting across the room. She screamed and hurled an ice spell, to no avail.

“Hawke!” Fenris shouted in disbelief, only to have his exclamation drowned out by another scream. More ice jettisoned across the room, missing the frenzied target and freezing a pair of moth-eaten slippers instead.

 _“Benexi futos!”_ he burst, scrambling onto his knees, “It’s just a rat!”

The critter scurried under the bed, which had Hawke producing some choked whimpering sound. Slipping on nightgown, housecoat and quilt, Hawke managed to pop onto her knees as well, her spine rigid but her star-hand trembling as she kept the bed firmly in her sight.

Slack-jawed, Fenris heaved, “ _You have lost your-_ ”

“Fenris?” she interrupted in a strangled voice, not listening to him at all.

“ _What?_ ”

“You hate that bed, right?”

“Yes- wait,” his head gave a small, confused jerk, “Why–”

Lightning zoomed from Hawke's hand before he could get out a full sentence, cracking the darkness and striking the bed with a sound that shook dust from the stone walls. Great splinters of wood burst forth, feathers and straw showering down like rain.

The rat emerged with a loud, distressed squeak, to which Hawke responded with a wild “HA!” and a blast of ice. The rodent snap-froze and tipped to the side with a dull clunk, debris still floating down around it.

Like the bed, Fenris' thoughts had been shocked to mere rubble. He stared at the scene, trying to comprehend it with his mangled mind.

It wasn't until the spots in his vision dimmed, until the ringing in his ears dulled, that his faculties began to return.

And once they had completely, Fenris was very unhappy.

“Are. You. _Insane?_ ” he growled, and if Hawke had not begun to turn around on her knees just then, he'd have grabbed her shoulders and turned her around himself, if only for the opportunity to follow up by shaking some sense into that thick skull.

She swatted hair out of her face, which had become rather flushed and indignant. “Of course not! One of us had to do something!”

“ _It was only a rat!_ ”

The star ball still hovered in Hawke's palm, white light glaring off one of her cheeks while the other was cast into eerie shadow.

“I _hate_ rats,” she countered shrilly, pupils shrinking to black specks, “And it was _huge_. And who knows how many more are in this hole!?”

“I do not care if there are _millions_ ; this outburst is not to be repeated.”

A phobia of rats, of all things. Giant spiders and axe-wielding Qunari were met with smiles or boredom, but rats turned the woman into a maniac.

“You know _what?_ ” she clipped, her nostrils flaring, “I agree.”

The insult he’d had ready tripped on his tongue. “You are- wait, what?”

“I _agree_ ,” she repeated petulantly, “Which is why, starting to tomorrow, we’re cleaning this pit.”

His mind had to replay that statement three times before it processed properly.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” he blared, eyes and mouth widening, “This mansion is enormous!”

“I did say we’d _start_ tomorrow.”

“It is not even your mansion!”

“I will be living here, won't I?” She folded her arms, keeping the star-hand free.

Fair point or not, Fenris refused to soften; there was a reason why he'd avoided this task for five years. His gaze drilled into her, but she took the assault without the faintest flinch. “I will not clean up Danarius’ mess,” he argued.

Light and shadow danced around the room as Hawke threw up her arms, the magical star flitting about like a firefly. “Who cares who made the mess, Fenris? It is time you move on!”

“ _I_ care!” he bellowed, power skittering up his lyrium trails, “And you know _nothing_ of which you speak!”

“Is that _right?_ I know that refusing to clean this house shows that Danarius still has a hold on you!”

The words prodded something raw, and he bluffed, “Shut up or I will _make_ you.”

“Ugh, why am I even- _why_ you still choose to live in squalor isn't even my issue! My issue _is_ the squalor. You cannot - and I _will_ not - live in a house that is infested with disgusting. Dirty. Mutant. _RATS!_ ”

They glowed and glared, their sleep-tousled hair and crumpled clothing only sharpening the moment’s hysterical edge.

Hawke had just thrown magic around like it was nothing, _blown up a bed_ , and probably woken half the city with her histrionics. Now _this_. Fenris would rather just return to the Hawke Estate and let Claymore flatten his lungs than submit to this imbecilic idea.

And all of this was over a rat. A Void-damned rat.

“ _Tea maldae!_ ” he spat, lying back down. He scowled at the empty fireplace, anger igniting his lyrium in dim ripples. Clean the mansion! They would have an easier time knocking it to the ground. She could not possibly fathom–

“So, is that a ‘yes’?”

“ _Just go to sleep you fool witch!_ ”

After a huff, Hawke put out the star and settled back into her blankets, not another word floating between them.

Fenris was not looking forward to the morning.

✷

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's such a tiny update. If it wasn't so late here and my brain was working at full capacity, I'd put up the next part. I'll put up more tomorrow :).


	20. Chapter 20

It was barely past dawn when Hawke was prodding Fenris to wake. She’d taken advantage of his sleeping state to get dressed for the day, a long, black cloak already tied around her body in preparation of a trip into Hightown. Somewhere amidst his mugginess and the residual anger from their earlier argument, Fenris had not missed the realisation that she had, not too long ago, been hovering around his body _naked._

That thought roused him far more effectively than he’d have liked.

Silently grumbling, he prepared for the horrid day. Hawke berated him for dressing in armor, since he’d have to change into light clothing for the cleaning anyway, but he would never feel comfortable stepping out into the city so unprotected... and he secretly enjoyed the woman’s irritation.

It was grey and cold outside, the streets mostly bare. The early hour peppered their cloaks in dew, and by the time they reached the chantry, Fenris’ feet were numb.

Though she never talked about it, Hawke did not like visiting the chantry. She had faith, this he knew, but did not practise, nor did she ever preach or debate. Still, he had not been so blind these five years as to miss the tension that gripped her whenever she passed through those heavy, gilded doors. This visit was no exception, though the set of her shoulders was not quite as stiff as they would have been during service hours. If asked, Fenris would venture that the anxiety had something to do with the Chantry’s position on magic; that Hawke was always respectful to the clergy and laity made it difficult for him to be completely certain in his assessment, however.

They did not tarry, tasking the first Sister they encountered to show them into the cleaning stores. Hawke relaxed a great deal once they were in the storehouse, possibly because it could be imagined as just another market stall. She made a large purchase, growing more enthusiastic by the item (it was frightening to consider that her enthusiasm could be more about the impending cleaning than spending money). With the assistance of two Brothers, they carried everything back to the mansion – a pair of brooms, dusters and mops, four scullery brushes, six small buckets, two larger washing buckets, and a dozen soap bars – and then sent a missive to the Hawke Estate requesting one of the household servants to deliver a simple breakfast later in the morning.

Resentful but resigned, Fenris changed out of his armor and into a set of house clothes. A partially psychosomatic reaction no doubt, but the material was chafing before he’d even pulled his arms completely through the sleeves – his markings would be stinging like sunburn by the end of the day.

Feeling spiteful, he reasoned that if his armor was not suitable for the cleaning, then Hawke’s robes would hardly be better. Thoroughly annoyed, he whipped around, ready to bluster about just that…

Only to discover that she hadn’t been wearing _robes_ underneath that cloak.

The rant stuttered and died. Instead, he stared – because there was absolutely no way that it could be helped.

In five years, he had seen Hawke in nothing other than robes or flowing nightclothes, and he would have most _definitely_ remembered. These unfamiliar clothes were not anything special; they were precisely what one should wear for such a messy task as the one ahead. A green tunic, the colour so faded that it was barely hinted now, draped loosely down her arms and torso. It was modest, just as her robes were, but the material was thinner and the cut just that tiny bit more flattering; less misleading of her figure.

But her breeches… they fit as snugly as breeches should.

Or shouldn’t.

The brown leather hugged Hawke's thighs tightly to the knee, and never had Fenris imagined that her legs would be so sweet and shapely. That which he could see was as milky white as the rest of her body, and impossibly smooth; hairless like elf skin.

Hawke was a small person, in both height and mass. The top of her head only reached partway up Fenris' nose, and though he had never seen her truly _exposed_ , he had seen enough to gauge - or at least, assume - her to be a woman of humble curves. Given her petite frame, he had expected for Hawke to be willowy beneath the robes, but that was not the case. There was a _fullness_ to her; created, not by generous swells like those of their pirate friend, but by a combination of other features - the high, prominent musculature of her calves, the roundness of her shoulders, the way her thighs brushed together as she shuffled from foot to foot.

“I, uh, haven’t worn these clothes for a while,” she said uncomfortably, having noticed Fenris’ blatant appraising. It took a second too long for him to shift his eyes from her legs to her face. She looked terribly self-conscious, and for the life of him, he just could not understand why.

_Those legs._

“They are sufficient,” he said hoarsely, and Hawke blinked in surprise at the strange tone. He winced internally and cleared his throat, and as he busied himself with organising their work materials, tried his hardest to keep his eyes and mind on safe territory.

Fenris couldn't remember the last time he'd failed at something so completely.

 

✷

They had a quick debate over which room they should start with, Fenris opting for the one they actually _used_ and Hawke for the kitchen. She won the argument by pointing out that the bedchamber was at least somewhat functional, and thus could be delayed.

Realistically, he didn’t care that much; part of him just liked to argue with the mage.

The kitchen was located in the same wing as the bathroom, and it was more daunting than he’d feared. Buckets, brushes and brooms in hand, they stood at the threshold for a full minute, just absorbing the devastation.

There were two wooden counters which ran along parallel walls, and not a handbreadth of either surface was spared a dirty utensil or wad of muck. The floor was much the same; a sea of crockery and cookware, all of which was blackened, caked or full with filth of varying consistency and colour. The larder at the far end of the room was open, allowing five years of food spoilage to waft out, and the smell was as bad as death.

There were no words to express how desperately Fenris did not want to clean that larder.

This nightmare was never going to end if it didn’t begin, so they hitched up their load and ventured inside. They waded towards the dreaded larder, pots and pans clanging or spilling their ominous dregs with each step that was taken.

Hawke steered them away however, leading them through the scullery door to the left. It was darker in here, so she wiggled the bucket she was carrying until it was perched on her wrist and then snapped her fingers to ignite the sconces. The candles had not yet melted down, which was a small grace.

The scullery was in much the same state as the main kitchen, the work table and floor were a spread of kitchen paraphernalia and rotted food, the basins and slop sink at the right wall overflowing with the same.

“Right,” Hawke said, equal parts determination and apprehension, “It won’t clean itself, I suppose.”

“Where do we even _start?_ ” he exclaimed, following her suit and leaning his broom against the wall.

“Good question… Magic?”

“ _No._ ”

In the end, they decided to clear the work spaces first. The floors were already covered, so they simply brushed everything off the table, pulled everything from the sink, and left the dishes to pile on the ground.

There was simply too much gunk inside the dishes of which to dispose; also, some of it looked suspiciously like demon ichor, so they agreed that dumping it down the sink was not an option – best case scenario, it would cause a clog and stink, worst case scenario, it would eat through the pipes. Though the mention of magic had been a jest (even Fenris knew that there was no such thing as a cleaning spell), he did reluctantly agree to its use in this regard.

They unearthed a copper tub from beneath a pile of dead vegetables and sat it in the slop sink, and then with agonizing tedium, picked up every dish in the room and emptied its contents into the tub. When the basin became too full (a swirl of black and grey, disconcerting lumps throughout), Hawke would carefully ignite the contents and then dump the harmless ash onto a pile on the floor to be dealt with later.

For the first couple of hours, Fenris simply allowed her to instruct. He didn’t want to be doing this, and though he had once been a slave, cleaning had seldom been one of his duties. However, as signs of progress began to be seen, he found his aversion to this idea waning.

It might not be the _worst_ thing, having a clean manor.

He took quiet initiative, scrubbing the scarred work table while Hawke cleaned pots, and then the insides of the closest storage cabinets. Their pace picked up once he began to assist, and he could not deny the satisfaction he felt as a result.

Two hours and they’d managed to clean all the cookware and cutlery in the scullery, all of which had also been stored away or piled neatly on the table. The floor and walls were still foul, but they would be a simple matter in comparison.

Now that they had a system established, the main kitchen was not so frightening. They emptied the dishes as before, left them on the scullery floor and then began the cleaning process. Fenris helped this time, using the second basin to speed things along.

Hawke had smiled at him for that, and without intending, he’d smiled right back.

By the time they’d cleaned every utensil in the kitchen, they could hear the very faint murmur of Hightown beyond the manor walls. They had been at this for hours already, and yet the nobles had only just begun to stir.

Fenris felt sharp respect for Hawke in that moment; whatever his reservations about this task, he could not disparage her efforts or her attitude. It was likely, after all, that the _Lady Amell_ was the only one of this city’s privileged who would even consider lowering to this kind of work.

All that was left to clean before they could move on to the surfaces and the dreaded larder, was the delicate porcelain crockery. Most of the pieces were still securely shelved on the far wall of the scullery, but had been splattered in that same disturbing black substance that had been on everything else.

The gunk had hidden the dishes' design, and so Fenris had not realised just _what_ these dishes were until he and Hawke were standing right before the shelves. Either that, or he _had_ realised and been in denial.

If Hawke had noticed the way his skin paled, she gave no indication.

Together, they carefully began piling the plates on the table, but Fenris had become rather sullen again. They had been chatting prior to this new endeavour, but with each dish Fenris had touched, he'd grown more quiet, until finally retreating into total silence.

As he pulled another couple down from the shelf - the grit of his teeth starting to hurt - Hawke finally forced him to speak.

“Is something wrong?” she asked, resting her hand on the shelf lip.

He glared at the small stack in his grasp. The plates were just as he remembered, down to their weight. Fine bone porcelain imported from Orlais, a pattern of black lilies around the rippled edges.

“Danarius has a matching set in his Tevinter estate,” he explained bitterly, “I cannot recall all the times I was made to serve these dishes to his guests.”

Hawke frowned up at the shelved plates and tapped one with a nail. “These plates? Are you certain?"

“The Magisters were permitted to pet me as I lowered,” he spat - his venom not for Hawke, but the memory, “I would endure their touch by focussing on the flowers around the dish's border. So yes, I am quite certain.”

Even from the corner of his eye, he could see the way Hawke’s body tensed. There was also a pique in her magical energy, a small crackle of static.

“They _petted_ you?”

The indignation set a flutter in his stomach, but he squashed it down.

“If I dropped a plate, they were also allowed to watch the beating,” he sneered, turning to place his stack with the others, “They often attempted to trip me up, hoping to provoke a show.”

There was a pause, during which Fenris stared down at the painfully familiar crockery, his thoughts a mess of memory and confusion. It was becoming easier to speak of these things, and he was having a difficult time determining just how that had happened.

Then he heard Hawke cluck her tongue, say “Well, in _that_ case-”

And he turned around just in time to see her grab one of Danarius’ priceless, fragile plates, rear her arm back, and throw it on the ground.

In the time it took to meet the floor, Fenris had forgotten how to breathe.

The plate smashed _magnificently_. Shards sprayed out and upward, the precious porcelain transformed into a fountain of ceramic dust. The sound was high and ringing, piercing right through to the core of bone and being. That rippled edging, those black lilies –

Gone. Just like that. There was nothing left but the tiniest slivers.

The plate had been well and truly destroyed.

That sound was still resonating in his body, a delicious sensation that he wanted to bask in forever, when he finally looked at Hawke. Shock and mirth battling for rule, he asked, “Care to explain?”

She was staring down at the debris with disdain, a flush in her cheeks. “We will _not_ be using these plates.”

Warmth trickled down the entire length of his body. He was half-gaping at Hawke, he knew that, but there was nothing he could do, no defence against this gush of affection and gratitude.

“You could sell them,” he ventured without conviction, speaking only because he thought it a requirement, his voice distant to his ears.

She met his eye, a smile now tugging at her lips. “ _Or_ we could take these plates into the Main Hall and smash every last one.”

The idea had his heartbeat spiking, excitement charging his blood. She saw the answer in his face, and her smile became brilliant.

Something in Fenris was stirring, something deep and buried and _big_. The longer he stared upon the queer, vibrant creature before him, the more insistent that stirring became.

Clothes smeared with black, fringe ruffled, eyes afire with vengeance for a wrong that had not been hers to suffer...

She was beautiful.

And there it was, that word he'd been avoiding. There was no taking it back, and now that he'd thought it, now that he could see its truth, he didn't _want_ to take it back.

Hawke was beautiful.

And that was that.

 

✷

No longer concerned whether the plates got chipped or scratched, they loaded their arms with large stacks and carried them out to the Main Hall. Fenris felt childish, or at least unlike himself, but Hawke was grinning and twittering and it was impossible not to be carried along.

Everything about her seemed sharper, lovelier, from the wayward strands of her golden, dust-covered hair to her creamy calves and bare, blackened feet.

He could not stop _looking_ at her.

They stood in the centre of the Hall, facing the wall which connected the staircases, two piles of plates between them.

“You go first,” she breathed, though she was already slightly crouched, ready to release her plate like a discus.

He smirked and spun a dish between his two middle fingers. “This is insanity.”

“But you _want_ to.”

“Absolutely.”

These delicate dishes had caused him so much agony.

As a slave, every time he’d been tasked to carry one, he’d been so _afraid_. The beatings he’d suffered in their name had always been significantly worse than his regular ones, for they had been about entertainment and appearances, not discipline. The worse the pain, the louder he’d howl, and the louder he’d howl, the greater the applause.

Fenris stilled the plate he’d been spinning and followed the swirling lily pattern with his eyes, ran his thumb along the waved border while his forefinger skimmed the potter’s mark at the back. Just as he remembered.

And it was about to become nothing _but_ a memory.

Without another second’s contemplation, he curved his arm backwards and flung that plate so hard that his world shook.

The impact echoed in the cavernous room, more moving than the chantry bell, more menacing than an arena gong. It was shrill and glorious and filled every corner of the house. Hawke cheered wildly, adding to the cacophony, and Fenris’ whole body soared.

This satisfaction was like no other – sharp enough to cut through chains.

Before the cloud of porcelain had even settled, or the sound for that matter, Hawke released her own plate, and Fenris watched the explosion with unrestrained relish.

Over the ringing she shouted, “Try and hit the statue’s face!”

She was already rearmed, her face full of cheer and challenge. His demons felt so far away.

“Is there a reward?” he played along, adrenaline streaming through his system. This was surely freedom at its most ridiculous, _but it was freedom_.

“Hmm…” she tilted her head, the plate dangling underneath her chin as she tapped a finger to her lip, “Alright, a reward then. If you can hit that ugly mug in under three tries, you may ask one thing of me.”

A tingle ran up his spine, as his mind, of course, went to inappropriate places.

“One thing?”

“One thing, anytime,” she clarified, “Anything you wish.”

It was doubtful that she would have made that promise if she knew just how depraved Fenris’ thoughts had become - not that he would ever ask her to fulfil any of his salacious flights of fancy.

He really needed to stop thinking about this.

“Deal,” he nodded, mischief in his eyes – then in one easy manoeuvre, pulled back, released, and hit the statue’s face in one shot.

That ludicrous boon was his, but Hawke’s expression was prize enough.

 

✷


	21. Chapter 21

They were both disappointed when the last plate had been destroyed, and were not at all fussed with the extra mess they’d just made for themselves. Bodahn arrived shortly after with their breakfast, which they ate on the floor of the Main Hall, the smell of porcelain dust heavy in the air. It was a simple meal of cheese and seeded flat bread, and they ate quickly, eager to continue with the cleaning. Their sport had very successfully turned Fenris’ stance around on the matter of fixing the mansion – if only because it might offer the chance to break more of Danarius’ possessions.

They returned to the kitchen, where they gathered all the garbage (ranging from mouldy rice sacks to chicken bones to unsalvageable utensils) into a mound. The larder was a putrid as they feared it would be, the sight paling their skin the moment the door was opened. Fenris was sent in first to scout for rats, and he was glad that his grimace had been hidden from Hawke. Dead insect larvae were stuck to many of the shelves, having congregated around the grains and meat (the latter of which had thankfully decomposed enough to no longer smell), and where once were sacks of fruit and vegetables, was now hardened, black sludge.

It was tempting to simply set the room on fire, close the door and never look back.

Though their eyes watered and they gagged with alarming frequency, they cleared out what still had a solid form, and then scraped and scrubbed until the larder actually looked useable once more. The counters were next, followed by the stove top, oven and kitchen cabinets. Then it was only a matter of hanging the last of the cookware along the counter walls and carrying their mountain of trash out into the Main Hall to join the plate debris. The floors aside, which would be cleaned another day, by early afternoon they had _cleaned the kitchen_. It had taken close to seven hours, they still had no crockery to use for meals – or food, at that – but they had actually cleaned the kitchen. The counters and cabinets were a caramel wood, Fenris could now see, the floor a darker oak. And there was an _oven_ , a _stove_ – he could actually make _meals_ here.

“You have a kitchen,” Hawke said, leaning on her broom.

Fenris had a kitchen.

✷

As a compromise to their earlier disagreement, they began on the bedchamber next, and it was almost laughable how less daunting this task was in comparison to their morning efforts. They spread out the ruined bed sheet (a hole the size of a fist scorched through the centre, courtesy of Hawke’s lightning attack), and placed all smaller bits of refuse on top – empty wine bottles, the now-deceased rat from last night (that was left to Fenris), the scattering of documents, dead quills and broken pottery.

Fenris had held a book for a long time, wondering whether he should simply admit defeat and throw the collection onto the pile, but without a word, Hawke had plucked the text from his hand and placed it back on the shelf. Clearly, she was not convinced that his illiteracy was a permanent limitation. That agitated him, but it also had him feeling impossibly hopeful.

The bed was particularly enjoyable to discard. The bedchamber’s position meant that the easiest way to go about the task was to simply chuck the thing over the balcony. First went the feather bed, blankets, pillows and the straw mattress, each one scattering the garbage below as it impacted, and coughing up enough dust to make the stone sneeze. The frame had already been split in half from Hawke’s lightning, and the individual pieces were just light enough that they could be carried without too much strain. He and Hawke took far too much delight in tossing the wood over, the crack as the pieces hit the ground nearly as wonderful as the plates smashing.

At Fenris’ initiative, the artwork was also thrown ‘overboard’, but they had their fun first, slashing the antique paintings to ribbons and breaking the ornate frames down for kindling.

When they were done, the room looked very bare, and what pieces of furniture remained, Hawke vowed to replace soon - whether Fenris agreed or not. As with the rest of the house, the walls and floors would come last, but it was another room (mostly) down, and with that, they ventured onto the next. By the time night fell and it became too dark to work properly (and they too weary), they had managed to clear one of the neighbouring bedchambers, as well. The garbage pile between the two staircases was already huge, but they would not bother removing it for at least a couple more cleaning sessions.

Bodahn dutifully stopped by again with their supper, which they ate with minimal conversation, both content to bask in the sensation of simply sitting. Despite having clean cutlery available, they’d opted to eat with their hands; the thought of washing dishes again so soon had made them cringe.

Dinner done, they indulged in longer baths than usual, and then settled in front of the fire to while away the remainder of the evening. Fenris, dressed once more in an irritating tunic, was leaning against the bench, polishing the sword resting carefully across his lap. As she had done those nights back in the study of her estate, Hawke lay in front of him, quill scratching away on her journal.

It had been a most unordinary day. There was a blissful lethargy in Fenris' muscles, and he felt accomplished. More than that, he was actually looking forward to tomorrow, and that was not something he experienced very often. They never spoke much while Hawke did her writing, but it was a comfortable quiet this evening. It also afforded Fenris the opportunity to sift through his thoughts... and sneak looks without being scrutinised, which he found himself doing more often these days.

Seeing Hawke so relaxed here on his rug, acting so familiar in these surroundings, was incomprehensibly gratifying.

It was disappointing, however, to see her wrapped up in that housecoat again. She would occasionally kick her calves up though, and the robe and nightdress would slip down, allowing him to see that clear, lily skin.

It was when witnessing one such instance that the ridiculous question stewing in his mind finally spilled out. “Why do you have no hair on your legs?”

Fantastic. Now she knew that he’d been staring. Not just by chance, but enough to contemplate the curious baldness of her limbs.

“What?” she giggled and turned her head, the quill blotting her page.

The tips of his ears were heating rapidly, though he was at least glad that Hawke didn't appear offended. “They are– that is to say, I just noticed that they are hairless.”

Stop. Talking.

“I shave them,” she gave him a crooked smile, then flicked her legs up and glanced behind, “I know it’s odd; there was an Orlesian sister at the Lothering chantry who showed me how to do it.”

“ _Fsh_ ,” he scoffed, trying to sound more like himself - not someone who was hopelessly distracted by her gleaming calves, “Of course, it would be an Orlesian practice.”

 _An excellent one._

“She was beautiful,” Hawke continued wistfully, “I was only seventeen when we first met, and so I, of course, decided I wanted to be just like her. Shaving my legs was slightly less drastic than the time I attempted to change my hair colour with cotton dye.”

“I like this colour.”

If not for the fact that it would only incriminate him further, Fenris would have buried his face into his palms. He’d actually said that _out loud._

She blinked at him, legs halting on the descent. “You… do?”

Viris igno, _don't say another–_

“Yes.”

He could not fathom where this horrible honesty was coming from. In a brilliant display of avoidance, he cast his head down and began buffing his blade once more. The heat had spread down to his neck now.

“Um, thank you,” Hawke said shyly, and he pursed his lips, fighting away the embarrassment. After a hesitation, when it became clear that Fenris was going to say nothing more, the scratching resumed. He very nearly sighed in relief... though, now he was wondering if she was going to record this conversation. He was very curious as to what she chronicled in general, but he bit his tongue when the question threatened to escape. It was a journal after all, not meant for sharing.

Slowly – but mercifully – the steady scratch of Hawke’s quill and his own trifling calmed his body back to normalcy. He rationalised that the soap and dust had simply addled his brain; it was the only explanation for the lapse in sanity.

One side of his blade sufficiently buffed, Fenris left the polish to seal and flipped the sword over. The sleeve he’d folded back drooped down with the small movement, and he shoved it back up irritably. Being in such loose clothing all day had left his markings feeling as chafed as he’d expected. He’d loathed having to put a tunic back on after his bath.

Not wanting to focus on the discomfort, he grit his teeth and resumed with the polishing. There were a few particularly stubborn scratches on this side, which he attacked with fervour.

In only a matter of seconds, his sleeve drooped again.

“ _Venhedis_ ,” he muttered, shoving it back.

The scratch of writing stopped. Hawke asked, “Is everything alright?”

His movements became stilted, the impulse to answer truthfully taking him off-guard.

“Yes,” he managed to lie, and continued to buff – though he had to shake that damnable sleeve back first.

“Is it your clothing?” she persisted.

“No.”

“Is it too big?”

“ _No_.”

“ _Is_ it your clothing?”

That urge tugged at him again, and he didn’t bother fighting this time. There wasn’t anything to be accomplished by answering, but it felt odd lying about it to Hawke. He sighed and raised his head, letting his hand fall from the sword. “If it will appease you, I am not accustomed to wearing such loose clothing at length.”

She frowned, dropped the quill and gave him her full attention. “What do you mean, exactly?”

The sudden scrutiny had him reeling a bit, but Hawke's concerned eyes wouldn't let him reel far. They had a power over him, drawing him back even when he wished to retreat, prompting him to answer once more.

“The fabric, it…” he faltered, unused to voicing such personal battles, even such small ones, “my markings do not react well to its constant shifting.”

That only elevated her concern, which bothered him on more than one level. She shuffled to her knees, golden brows knitting more fiercely. “What do you usually wear?”

“Not this,” he said cryptically, wary of where this was headed. He could see as the pieces fell into place in her head.

“You wear less, you mean? Keep your skin as unhindered as possible?” she ventured, and he actually had to marvel at her phrasing – it was almost bearable. He nodded, which, to his complete surprise, had her looking rather incredulous.

“Take off your blighted tunic then!” she scolded, arms crossing.

“ _Excuse me?_ ”

“You heard me. I _have_ seen a bare chest before, Fenris.”

“It’s not about that!” he snapped, hating the way his ears were sizzling again – and the way he hysterically hoped that the only bare chest Hawke had seen was her brother’s.

“Then what _is_ it about?”

“You know my reasons,” he said, voice roughened by shame, “Do not act otherwise.”

She gave him a level look, which he met with a petulant glare.

“I know,” she finally sighed and unfolded her arms, “I just– I’m sorry. I know I can be a bit pushy.”

“A _bit?_ ” he accused, though he did feel slightly mollified. It was rare to hear Hawke admit that she was in the wrong, least of all to Fenris.

“Quiet you,” she smirked, and her expression became softer, “Look, I know you hate… I know this is about your markings.”

“Hawke,” he warned, now more agitated than angry. There was a jump in his pulse as she began to shuffle closer. When her knees were only a handful of inches away from his legs, she stopped. It was harder to concentrate with this faint thud of blood in his ears.

“Fenris,” she had him trapped in those large, guileless eyes again, “we could be stuck together for a _long time_.”

The words hovered as she bore into him in quiet insistence. The tunic coarsened with each second.

He wanted to claw it off more than ever, to burn the grating cotton, to let his tender, pinching skin _breathe_. It should have been a simple matter, to remove the shirt, but weakness licked at his stomach, acidic and bitter. It was just removing a tunic, and it was _hard_.

Two instincts warred at each other as he set his sword aside, an action done outside of conscious thought. There was the instinct to distrust, to hide, to accept his freakishness… but then there was this new one. The one that said the opposite. The one that said he was safe here.

It was just a tunic. _It was just a tunic._

His hands felt heavy as they rested on the hem, and still he had not broken his gaze with Hawke; it was anchoring in a way he didn’t understand but in a way he needed right now.

Maybe she understood that this wasn’t easy for him. Maybe he didn’t even mind that.

A hardened jaw, a quick slide of fabric and he’d pulled the shirt up and off, leaving him bare like he’d never been before. The night air washed over him, cool and blessedly unobstructed, the heat of the fireplace blocked by the woman still kneeling at his front.

He swallowed both a sigh and the urge to rub away the sting – that was a level of weakness he was not ready to reveal. The initial cloud of relief thinned, and his awareness returned...

Which was how he finally became aware of how avidly he was being watched.

Green eyes, bright and pale as grass underneath dawn light, were trailing his torso – and his insides twisted so spectacularly that, for a frantic moment, he was afraid that those eyes would somehow _see._

The look in those eyes... so _focussed_ , so _everywhere_...

He already couldn’t stand it. It was too foreign, too much.

“You are staring,” he accused gruffly, snatching the tunic back up, “This was a mistake.”

He fanned out the shirt, was preparing to pull it back on, when Hawke came back to herself. She made an odd sound, something between a gasp and a tut, and then darted forward to latch onto the tunic.

“Let go!” he cried.

“No!” she huffed, face flushed, “ _You_ need to let go!”

“Spare me your double meanings!”

With that, he gave the clothing a hard yank. Too hard, it turned out, for Hawke slipped.

She yelped and hurled forward, the shirt forgotten as arms were thrown out to brace instead. In the blur of time it took her to descend, Fenris experienced a flash of the last instance Hawke had lost her balance like this.

That had not ended well.

This time, there was no altar though. This time, instead of hitting stone, one of her palms landed against the bench-seat, and instead of gripping flowers, her other splayed firmly against his stomach. His own hands had released the shirt and shot up of their own accord as she’d fallen, clutching her upper arms.

It took a moment for them to get their bearings, for the rush to clear.

And then they realised their position...

They were close.

They were very, very close.

Hawke’s breath was on his face, erratic and shallow, a match to his own. It was moist though, a counter to the dryness of his throat, the crisp, clean scent of the mint leaves she’d chewed after supper washing against his mouth. He swallowed without thinking, drinking in the flavour, and his tongue very nearly slipped out to taste his lips.

This fascination with her mouth and breath was secondary, however. For nothing, _nothing_ could compare to the feeling of her hand against him.

It had been such a long time since he’d been touched, and the last had not been pleasant – it had _never_ been pleasant. This was… this was silk and heat. His blood was in pandemonium, draining from some places, pooling in others.

This close, they were both cast into shadow, but her eyes were like beacons, blinding in their shock and light. She said nothing, just stared in silent, open-mouthed regard – as though in _awe_. That gaze grazed down from his eyes to his lips, where it lingered just long enough to make him tingle – and then, after a brief, nervous flicker to his eyes again, they dared to move lower; down to study the tangle of lyrium spread out beneath her palm.

The chaos inside him kept his body rooted, kept his words locked away. Everything had become too stark, every sense razor sharp. He watched her face as she absorbed the wretched markings, unable to make her stop, unable to make sense of his own reluctance.

As quiet as rustling paper, she whispered, “They're slightly raised.”

A ragged breath passed between them, and then her hand _shifted_ , and he barely caught the hiss of raw pleasure that had tunnelled up his throat. It was the tiniest, most tentative exploration, a mere brush of her fingertips across the snaking lyrium at the base of his sternum, but every muscle in his stomach seemed to spasm underneath.

A little higher, and the thumping in his chest would be impossible for her to miss – a little lower and the discovery would be _far_ worse. He’d _never_ been touched like this; never in a way that wasn’t violent or ugly. He was burning up, the centre of him pure, liquid heat.

Curiosity had overcome the woman, dulling her better sense. Tremulously – for she _had_ to be aware of how bold this was – the pad of her forefinger rested upon a single line of lyrium, sending a sweet hum through its length and right up to Fenris’ teeth. She bit her lip, gaze flicking up for another second, and then slowly, so slowly smoothed over the marking’s path.

His chest was visibly fluttering as her finger ascended, and by Andraste’s grace, her face was _reverent_. Not disgusted or pitying, but reverent. A knot in his core tightened at the sight, and he struggled not to react with a groan.

Hawke inched to the right, venturing into the outskirts of his pectoral, utterly silent about the gooseflesh erupting around the lyrium. A thumb, gentle and soft, came up to skim more of his skin, and it was all simply too much.

Fenris' hand shot up and gripped her wrist, stilling her movements. With the expression of a startled hare, she lifted her face.

“Hawke,” his husk of a voice was barely recognisable, “stop.”

Red spread over her cheeks like wine on cotton. It was lunacy that she might not have even known the effect of her _investigation_. He watched her throat intensely as she swallowed, every one of her movements catching his eye like he were predator and she prey.

“I-I’m sorry,” she breathed, pulling free, “I didn’t mean to… it’s just, I was _there_ , and you– I couldn’t help myself… oh Maker, just knock me out if it’ll shut me up.”

Cold trickled into his gut as she scrambled to right herself, as her breath, warmth and touch slipped away. The tunic lay conveniently across his lap, concealing how aggressively he had been affected by her small, curious hand.

He should have been furious that she’d invaded his space like that. After all that had been done to his body, he should have been repulsed by her touch, by _anyone’s_ touch. He wanted to be these things, more so because it was Hawke who had touched him, and he’d spent five years nursing his contempt for the woman.

But, in hopeless contradiction, when he focussed on the fact that it was Hawke, he only felt a thrill.

It was no longer so easy to hate her.

“If you are done gawking, mage, leave me be,” he snarled, retrieving his sword and already feeling a pang at speaking to her so harshly.

He needed to be this way though; it was the only feeling, the only dynamic which still made sense to him. This thrumming of blood, this desire to meet her eyes again and see her smile – _make_ her smile – it was staggering in its unfamiliarity.

“Artemis,” she whispered, and whether it was how very faint her voice was, or some inflection he’d noticed, Fenris knew that she was speaking more to herself than him.

Like she was reminding herself.

His chest constricted, his grip on the sword hilt tightening with the sensation. It was haunting, hearing her say her own name like that. It repeated in his mind, rhythmic and sweet as a tolling bell. It was almost like thinking about a different person, so difficult was it to reconcile Hawke with this other, shadowed name.

The longer he thought of it, the worse the pressure in his chest.

She retreated to her journal, sitting cross-legged toward the fire. He managed to focus on his sword for all of a minute before he gave in to watching Hawke… or Artemis… or whoever this woman was, even if it was just the nape of her neck, the knot of her hair, or the curve of her back as she bent over to write.

From that point, he merely buffed his sword as a pretense, so that his keen observing might not be felt or noticed. It was an idle action, all of his concentration on this enigma hunched in front of his fireplace. He felt frustrated, knowing he should not be _dwelling_ , that the only intelligent course was to repress all of this, to _deny_.

But knowing wasn't enough. So Fenris buffed and he watched and he dwelled.

And he didn't put his shirt back on.

✷

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've taken a break from my Boxing Day cleaning to post an update ^^. Did you all have a lovely holiday? I had a great time with my family; was especially sad to say goodbye to my brother (I don't see him very often). Now I'm off to stuff my face with leftover dessert ( _seven different kinds_ ). Ooooh yeah.


	22. Chapter 22

The cleaning awarded Fenris a sense of direction he'd lacked for a long time. Or more accurately, a sense of direction he'd just lacked. This was not a slave's direction after all, but a task born of choice. For all that Hawke had dragged him into this mess - literally - he was free to drag them both back out if he truly wanted.

When Hawke had first suggested this plan, he had not anticipated that it would be so cathartic. With each of Danarius' fingerprints they wiped away, Fenris felt a little lighter. The state of the mansion grated at him like it had never done before, and he was eager to fix that.

As she had done every morning since they'd begun, Hawke woke Fenris just after dawn. She was already dressed and ready, and after donning his own work clothes, they gathered up their supplies and made for the bathroom – the one other room they used regularly.

The trash was easy to clear. The real issue was the grime; it was different to what had coated the kitchen: thicker, oilier, and the first scrub hardly achieved anything, merely shifted the slick around. For an hour, they worked on the same counter spot, cursing and grunting, until they had finally settled on a method which worked. They coated the entire unit in soap, surface and sides, and then switched to cleaning the lavatory and tub while it dried. Then it was simply a matter of will. They scrubbed in small, hard lines, the soap having destabilised the muck enough to allow for a very slow, very tedious removal. They had to empty and refill their buckets frequently, the water blackening beyond use after only a handful of rinses.

It took almost two hours to finish the counter, their fingers aching, wrinkled and red by the end. Fenris had fared much better than Hawke, thanks to his calluses, but had not been entirely spared. Standing back to take a breath, they both stared at their abused hands and then at each other, apprehension and amusement passing between – they’d barely even started and already felt like they’d been petting grindstones.

“These may help,” Fenris muttered, stripping one of their drying linens and then handing two of the swaths to Hawke.

His body fell into step easily, remembering and mimicking the countless times he'd bound his hands just like this. From the speed of his wrapping to the binding's firmness to its exact position on his palm - it was all the same.

Fenris had obviously been a swordsman of some skill before the lyrium ritual, but even so, his training regimen afterwards had been brutal. For the first six months – which, of all his time in Danarius’ service, he tried hardest not to dwell upon – the calluses he’d already possessed proved useless, frequently leaving his hands bloodied. He had not been allowed gloves or salve, just the occasional rough strip of linen to buffer the chafe.

A shadow began to descend as he knotted the second cloth, and he wished that these memories could join the others that had been lost to him.

Then Fenris looked up, and if only for a few seconds, his wish was granted.

Never had he been so swiftly and firmly whacked back to the present. But then, no one would be able to maintain their brooding when confronted with _that._

Face and hair streaked with grime, brows bunched, linen in her teeth as she struggled to tie with one hand, Hawke was disgustingly endearing. Like he’d stepped into sunlight, that depressive shadow sucked out of existence. Fenris' lips twitched, but he managed to hide it with a quick duck of his head.

That idiot mage couldn’t even let him mope in peace.

Cloth in place, they set back to work. Unlike with the rest of the house, they had resolved not to wait to clean the bathroom floor; using the same method as before, they soaped one corner of the room, left it to dry whilst they moved on to soap another, and then returned to finally scrub. The makeshift bandages did stop the wooden brush edges from rubbing their palms raw, but there was nothing to be done about the chafing cloth or the pressure in their digits.

It was approaching noon when they were finally satisfied. They allowed only the scantest moment to appreciate the barren but now sanitary bathroom, the ache in their hands and arms only likely to turn stiff if they didn’t plough onward. They spent the rest of the afternoon clearing out the East Wing servants’ quarters, much of that time spent breaking down the bedframes which contained rot.

Their cleaning ended sooner today than usual, the weekly card game at _The Hanged Man_ calling them away. They were both tired and stiff, and the skin of their palms was stinging like mad, but still they found themselves bathing, dressing, and trudging through the streets of Lowtown.

In the past, when Fenris had arrived for these card games, those first few moments after entering the pub had always been a touch jarring. Outside of working with Hawke, most of his free time had either been spent alone in his mansion or doing solo mercenary jobs. It was a quiet existence, silent really, so being suddenly confronted with such raucousness always took some adjustment. The crowd did not have such an impact now, and that was, without a doubt, Hawke's doing. She was not just present in his life, but a _presence_. She was order and chaos rolled into a single being; she was a world unto herself. A tavern crowd was not so daunting in comparison.

Opting to risk the 'last to arrive, first to buy the drinks' rule, they delayed heading up to Varric's suite in favour of stopping by the bar. Having skipped breakfast and lunch, they were more concerned with their angry stomachs than anything else.

The crowd crushed Hawke into the bar as she called over the noise, “Two stews and a loaf of bread, Corff. A couple of potatoes as well if you have any that aren’t rotten.”

“On it,” the keep nodded, and with a tap to the counter, Hawke pushed off.

As they weaved expertly through the masses (they had become quite savvy at staying close in such environments), Fenris inquired, “You are aware that the stew here tastes like salty dirt?”

“Oh, I remember vividly; but I’m so hungry right now that I’d eat _you_ if someone shoved you in a bowl.”

He smirked at the imagery, scaling the back staircase. “I fear I would not make a very good meal.”

“Agreed,” she grinned at him over her shoulder, “You would be awfully _dry_.”

He laughed softly as they entered Varric’s suite. Everyone except Aveline was present and sitting in their usual spots, and of course, they all turned towards the latest arrivals. Given the varying expressions of amusement and disapproval, their situation was still something of a scandal.

“And now I’ve seen everything,” Varric said, eyes twinkling, “or heard everything.”

“Care to elaborate?” Hawke asked, settling into her seat. The abomination had taken his usual chair, leaving the one at Fenris’ adjacent-right vacant, and though it was completely irrational, he glowed with satisfaction at seeing Hawke sit there so casually.

Isabela was resting forward on an elbow, her chin propped in a palm. “He’s talking about Fenris being all tickled pink around you.”

He made a sound of derision, hoping to sound more annoyed than embarrassed. The banter was, fortunately, interrupted by Aveline, who had just arrived.

“Shit,” she muttered from behind, and Fenris turned his head just in time to see her spin on foot and skulk back the way she came – the last arrival had taken off to uphold her duty of buying the first round.

“The benefits of living in the pub,” Isabela lifted her mug to Varric, “Never late to the party.”

“Cheers, Rivaini.”

Ignoring their companions, Anders gave Hawke an appraising look, folded arms resting on the table. “You look tired.”

“Astute,” Fenris scoffed.

“I am– well, _we_ are,” she said quickly, hoping to stem the hostility before it had a chance to flow, “We’ve been busy.”

“Busy?” their personal harlot crooned, “As in _getting?_ ”

Hawke gave her an imperious look. “Isabela, if you keep it up, I will-”

“Please let the next word be 'spank' or 'cuff'.”

“-I will not buy you that stupid... er... _mesmerizer_ hat,” Hawke finished, eyes narrowing. There was a round of laughter and comical _'ooh'_ s.

“It's called a _fascinator_ , you _divvy_ , and it's more of a headpiece than- wait, _what?_ ”

"You heard me," Hawke continued, swelling with smugness.

Mirroring her adversary's squint, she said, “That’s playing dirty.”

Not much could shut the wench up, but the prospect of being denied free goods was usually the best bet. It never lasted, but it could buy a respite of at least a few minutes.

Suspicion still lacing his tone, Anders persisted, “What could possibly have you both so busy?”

“We’ve been cleaning.”

“Your estate is immaculate.”

“Fenris’ isn’t,” she said, fiddling with a coaster, and the ease with which she gave her answer was not lost on Fenris; he was charmed that she felt so comfortable speaking about her living arrangement.

“Why are you– you’re staying _there_ now?”

Annoyed with the man's constant prying, Fenris sneered, “You have a problem?”

“Of course I have a problem,” he snapped, “That manor is disgusting.”

Hawke tutted, tired eyes focussed on the coaster spinning under her finger. “Hence the cleaning, Anders.”

“Does he make you sleep on the floor?”

Fenris' hackles rose. “It is not your concern where Hawke sleeps, creature.”

The question was not only a gross intrusion, but into matters beyond his scope; the filthy apostate couldn't possibly understand all of the complexities of this tether situation. With a gentle smack of wood, Hawke flattened the coaster under her palm, wincing when it aggravated the raw skin.

“No one is _making_ me sleep anywhere,” she sighed, curling her hand back, and he couldn’t tell if she was lying for Anders’ benefit or if that was how she truly felt. He hoped it was the latter.

“Saved by the Guard-Captain,” Varric muttered, his eyes moving to the doorway. They swivelled to watch Aveline make her return, a platter of mugs in hand.

“Evening, Aveline,” Hawke beamed, ignoring the walls of tension at her flanks, “I am so very glad to see– _Norah! Yes!_ ”

Aveline's fiery brows flew skyward, and as she placed the platter onto the table, she asked, “You’re glad to see Norah?”

“No… well yes, but– ah, never mind,” she shook her head impatiently, too excited to think properly. A quick swerve of his head allowed Fenris to see the waitress crossing the threshold, the tray of food in her hand the true source of Hawke’s enthusiasm. His own stomach rumbled in anticipation.

“Evenin’ all,” Norah said as she entered, her voice as perky and nasal as ever, “which of you lot ordered the mush?”

“That would be us,” Hawke smiled, waving a hand between Fenris and herself, the rest of the table watching curiously.

She began unloading the platter and cackled, “What you doing eating this rubbish? That sweet elf girl of yours sick or something?”

“Oh no, Orana’s fine. Fenris and I just got caught up in a project of sorts.”

“I see, I see,” she said, tucking the empty tray under an arm, “Well, good luck with it!”

And she was off.

“What project is this?” Aveline queried, now settled into her seat between Isabela and Merrill.

The little Dalish said, “Hawke is helping Fenris tidy his house. It’s very sweet.”

Gripping his spoon and trying to suppress his rising flush through will alone, Fenris complained, “It is not _sweet_.”

Eyes expanding, Aveline continued, “Truly? You're cleaning?”

“Does it matter?” he sighed, “It's hardly worthy of conversation.”

“It’s long overdue,” she said with an approving nod, wise enough to keep further opinions to herself, “Would you like some help with any of it?”

“No.”

Hawke swatted his arm. “Hold up there, Serah Antisocial.”

“We do not need help,” he said to her through gritted teeth. Not only did he hate the idea of so many people tromping through his manor, but he actually enjoyed cleaning with Hawke.

 _Just_ Hawke.

“No?” she asked incredulously, putting down her unused spoon and then holding her palms out to him; they looked painful. There were no open sores, but the top and bottom hills of her palms were red and shiny, ready to split or blister; the pads of her fingers were no better.

The hand resting on his thigh twitched with his urge to touch, to _help_. Isabela whistled in appreciation of the nasty welts.

“Bloody Void,” Anders breathed, grabbing her wrists – and this time, Fenris’ hand _clenched_ , “were you scrubbing with gravel?”

She laughed, damn her. “It feels like that.”

There was an uncomfortable prickle in Fenris’ lyrium as the abomination sucked magic from the air; the sensation was not as _tolerable_ as that produced by Hawke's magic. Disapproval lanced through Fenris when the hands around Hawke’s wrists began to shimmer with green, healing light.

But she pulled away.

Anders blinked in surprise, the magic dissolving. “Is everything alright?”

“Tip-top,” she assured, picking up her spoon once more, “I just don’t think scrub burn is dire enough to warrant healing magic.”

Pride – actual _pride_ – gushed through Fenris’ body. The corners of his lips quirked, approval tugging them into a sincere smile; not because Hawke had denied magic, but because she had demonstrated the basic discipline most mages lacked - after all, one would not open a letter with a sword or use stitches to close a paper cut.

The moment was made all the more grand by the poisonous glare Anders shot Fenris, as though this was somehow his influence.

“So, to answer your question: yes, Aveline,” Hawke chirped, “I’m sure we will be calling upon all of you for help at some point.”

“ _All_ of us?” Isabela blurted from her mug, drink sloshing down her chin and cleavage, “Bah! See what you made me do?”

Varric and Anders wore matching expressions of incredulity, though Merrill looked positively eager. “It will be fun!”

“No, kitten, fun is giving Brother Sebastian a chub through the chantry confessional,” she said with lewd sweetness, making Aveline scowl, “This is not even in the realm of fun.”

“ _Anders_ and I always have fun cleaning,” Merrill insisted.

Pulled off-topic and into the gutter, Isabela dragged her hooded eyes from one maleficar to the other. “Oh, _do_ you now? You and _Anders?_ ”

Fenris could barely stomach the insinuation; the mental picture was just too foul.

“She's helping in the clinic, Isabela,” Anders said impatiently, though he'd visibly stiffened and looked very determinedly away from the elf girl.

“Oh. Yeah. Well that's boring.”

Misunderstanding, Merrill objected, “It's not boring.”

“ _Anyway,_ ” Anders interrupted, a tight smile on his face, “Hawke, you were saying something about wanting us to clean a giant midden?”

“You had to bring it back up,” Isabela grumbled, knocking back the rest of her drink.

“It won’t be that bad,” Hawke soothed, picking out the peas in her stew and dumping them in Fenris’ bowl. It was something he’d allowed during previous meals, but now Varric was watching the idle action with interest, and he felt a blush creep. If it would not have been so obvious, he’d have told her to stop.

“That’s a rotten lie, but _fine_ , Captain Isabela will help,” the pirate sighed in resignation, “And, hey, since we’re on the topic of favours–”

Hawke snorted. “Nice segue.”

“Thanks, it’s a talent. But really, I could use your help with something.”

“You’ll have to ask Fenris too,” she said diplomatically, and he nearly scoffed around his mouthful of stew (which was as gluggy and awful as usual), as they both knew that she’d drag him along no matter his stance.

Isabela waved her hand impatiently, “This is me asking both of you then. There’ll be a fence coming in from Ansburg sometime during the next couple of weeks; probably nothing, but I was tipped that he _could_ have some relic-related information, if not the relic itself. I plan to meet him at the docks for a chat, but I’m expecting Coterie company. I don't have the date pinned, so I thought I'd mention it now.”

Both he and Hawke went rigid, spoons freezing in mid-air.

“You– you want us to fight?” she croaked, and he cringed at the memory of the last time they’d attempted to assist a friend in this manner. Hawke’s staff still had a chunk missing.

“Is that a problem?”

They gave each other a long, sideways look. The rest of the table was tactfully silent for once; Varric and Aveline, who had witnessed that warehouse disaster, had actually averted their eyes completely.

“It…” Hawke began, but then drifted off. A glassiness came across her face, her mind disappearing to a place far away.

Fenris leaned in and murmured, “What is it?”

Her eyelids fluttered and she smiled, focussing once more.

“I’ll tell you later,” she said and then addressed Isabela, “No, it won’t be a problem.”

He looked at her skeptically. “History would suggest otherwise.”

“I’ve got an idea,” she whispered, and he felt both intrigued and concerned – her ideas tended to warrant both. They settled the details with Isabela and then finally started the card game, he and Hawke shovelling food into their mouths all the while.

Merrill also took this opportunity to update them on Keeper Marethari’s progress. They were expected at the Dalish camp in one week’s time to assist in the ritual preparations, though the blood mage had not been apprised of the finer details. All they knew was that they would be required to stay in the camp overnight - it would be a miracle if the Dalish didn’t cut all their throats while they slept.

Despite the hideous food and the occasional snide remarks about the tether, the evening was not so terrible. Fenris and Hawke stayed longer than was strictly responsible, given how exhausting the day had been, but it was an indulgence they both needed. That said, he didn’t mind at all when Hawke finally yawned and asked if they could leave, for they did have another big day ahead. Though, secretly, his eagerness to get to bed was less about wanting to sleep and more about wanting to wake.

He was developing a certain fondness for new days.

✷


	23. Chapter 23

“Ew, his head is lolling again!”

“I told you to stop watching.”

“I know, but it’s right there… _lolling._ ”

“Stop, you’ll get distracted and drop it again.”

“It? His name’s Wilcox, remember?”

“Didn’t you name the last one Wilcox?”

“No, that was Wulfrud– alright, on the pile.”

Having reached their location, Fenris and Hawke unceremoniously dumped their cargo – the cargo being one of the many, magically-preserved bodies scattered throughout the manor. They’d decided to isolate all the corpses to a room in the West Wing, and had been doing so for over an hour. They were still not quite certain what they were going to do with them beyond that, unfortunately.

“Ugh,” Hawke grimaced, watching the latest addition roll off the hill of bodies to flop onto the ground, “There he goes again, just lolling about.”

Fenris kicked the man’s mottled arm, which had sprawled across the floor.

“Great,” she drawled, “now he has his hand on Benedict’s crotch.”

He smirked at her macabre humour; it had turned what would have been a grisly, sombre job into something amusing. These men were slavers, as evident by their armor, and so neither Hawke nor Fenris made any effort to honour their deaths.

“I believe ‘Wilcox’ was the last of the bodies,” he said, then gave the man a critical look, “and perhaps the ugliest.”

“I don’t know, there was that one with the missing eyelid...”

They both shuddered.

Joking about their morbid morning task, they made their way back to the Main Hall, Fenris expecting to collect their cleaning supplies and make a start on the untouched West Wing. However, as he grabbed the broom leaning against the wall by the staircase, Hawke tapped his arm.

“I have another plan for this morning, if you’ve a mind,” she said, pale green eyes gleaming. He'd learned to be wary of such looks.

Tentatively putting the broom back, he asked, “Such as?”

“Training actually.”

“Training…” he began, then recalled Isabela’s request for back-up, “You wish to improve our combat technique.”

She snorted loudly, the sound echoing back at them. “We don’t _have_ a technique.”

“That much is painfully obvious,” he agreed with a wry smile, “You have a plan, however…?”

“I do have a plan,” she said mysteriously, and to his bemusement, began freeing the makeshift belt hanging around her waist. It was a blood-red curtain sash she’d taken from one of the spare rooms earlier that morning. She’d woven it through the loops of her breeches (twice, for it was so long, the rest of it left to hang past both knees), and Fenris had not questioned, thinking it to be one of her whims. Clearly, he had been incorrect.

Watching the material coil on the floor with a kind of lazy amusement, he said, “I am very curious to see where this is going.”

“Ha, I’m sure you are… bah, come on you stupid–” with a final yank she freed the last of the sash, then, with a proud grin, she draped it across her palms and held it out to Fenris triumphantly, “Behold our training tool.”

Skeptical, he flicked his gaze between her hands and her face, and said, “It is a curtain sash.”

“Imagination, Serah, imagination!”

“My imagination still says that this is a curtain sash.”

“Fine, I’ll explain,” she slid the red length through her hands until she was grasping one end, “I’d say we’re pretty expert at judging the limits of the tether. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

“Until we have to fight,” she said wisely, and he was beginning to see where this was going, “When we’re in combat, we either find ourselves too cautious to move more than a couple of feet away, or instinct takes over and… well, you remember The Warehouse.”

 _The Warehouse._ The incident would forever be known as such.

“What we need is to learn our boundaries and how to be aware of each other when fighting in such close quarters,” she twirled the end of the cord, “Thus the sash.”

Whilst the idea nestled into his mind, Fenris picked up the other end from the ground and tested the strength of the material.

Fenris had been trained to protect and fight mages, but had never trained _with_ one before. It would shock no one to discover that he'd never held a particular desire to train with one, either. In fact, if anyone other than Hawke had suggested this, he might have merely curled his lip and turned his back.

But this _was_ Hawke, and that, apparently, made a profound difference.

Hawke’s voice trembled slightly with excitement. “What do you think?”

He gave her a sincere, half-smile. “It is clever.”

It truly was a good idea. The sash would ensure that neither stepped out of range. It would also tug or shift at their waists as they moved around each other, allowing them to remain aware of the other’s position – and hopefully prevent any accidental decapitating or burning.

“ _I_ thought so,” she said, smile bright enough to blind, “Shall we get started then?”

Their work clothes would be suitable enough for training, so they did not bother changing, but simply grabbed their weapons from the bedchamber and ventured back down to the Main Hall to prepare. They re-piled the trash so that a large portion of the floor was clear and then donned the sash; it was long enough that they could tie it securely and still have six feet of length between them.

What they were doing was, undeniably, very odd, but then everything about their lives was odd now. Besides, Fenris had participated in far stranger training practises.

However, now that they were standing in the centre of the hall, ready to go, neither was certain where to begin.

“Suggestions?” Hawke asked hopefully, staff in hand.

“This _was_ your idea,” he said. His own weapon stood straight upon its point at his side, his hand resting on the pommel.

“I know, but _you’re_ the warrior,” she countered, “You do the most flinging and stuff.”

He scowled. “You are an _incorrigible_ ‘flinger’.”

“I am not!”

“You twirl that staff around like a giant baton,” he argued, flicking up a couple of fingers from his sword pommel as way of gesture, “I’m surprised you haven’t cracked anyone’s skull.”

“Says the man who nearly cut my head off.”

They exchanged heated looks, both realising that they were heading back into Warehouse territory. It would do no good to begin on a hostile note.

Hawke took a long, deep breath. “All I meant was that sword fighting naturally requires more movement than casting, so it’s probably most important that I first learn how to stay out of your way. Do you think you could teach me?”

Spurred by her humility - and his ego more than a little stroked - he nodded.

“Excellent,” she gripped her staff with new determination, “lead the way.”

✷

This training was more challenging than they’d anticipated.

Fenris had begun by showing Hawke his sword drills, but even _those_ had been dangerous, for his weapon was long, whipping close enough to Hawke that it had disturbed her hair. They'd switched out his blade for a broken curtain rail and begun again – very slowly.

Just as there would be no actual sword involved in this session, Hawke would not be casting either; first and foremost, they needed to become comfortable moving around each other in close quarters. They applied numbers to the sword drills and went through each until Hawke had them memorised. Once successful, they moved on to the first real challenge – learning to _respond_. Standing still but close, she would wait until Fenris called a drill number and then duck, side-step or swerve to avoid the “blade”.

Hawke was no warrior, but she was a quick study and had better reflexes than he’d realised. The biggest issue at this stage, however, was her staff. It was long and cumbersome, and even without her swinging it to cast, it was struck far more often than the actual mage. The tenth time this happened – hard enough to knock the weapon to the ground – Fenris sighed in frustration and called for a break.

“Do you truly need a staff?” he asked irritably while Hawke picked it up. Though not experienced in close quarters combat with mages, Fenris was experienced enough as a _warrior_ to recognise that her weapon was always going to be a hindrance – no matter how well she learned to move.

“Well… no, not technically,” she said hesitantly, her grip on the wood tightening protectively, “but they have significant amplification properties. They also increase focus, since they’re usually designed to complement particular schools of magic.”

“Could you not learn to fight without one?” he pressed.

“I _could_ ,” she scrunched up her face in displeasure, “but it would be like asking you to fight with a dull sword.”

“And there is nothing else you could use to achieve the same result?” he ran an annoyed hand through his hair, “One would think that mages would have a far more imaginative arsenal than wooden sticks.”

She shrugged and tilted the staff in front of her to idly inspecting the gouge. “The Tevinters once used wands, I think.”

Until the Storm Age, actually, when they were finally surpassed by staves – this was one of several useless pieces of magical history Fenris had obtained during his time in the Imperium. The staff had been the favoured weapon of the progressive Archon Nomaran, and thus swiftly became the favoured weapon of the Magisters. It sparked a trend which spread across Thedas, until the wand eventually became nothing more but a social gaffe. Now they only existed as antiques, and so were very much out of the question.

“There is absolutely nothing else you can use?” he asked again in exasperation, and then a thought struck him, “Could Sandal not construct something?”

Hawke stopped fiddling with the wood scar and frowned at him thoughtfully. “I don’t know,” she said, curiosity lifting her voice, “maybe. What did you have in mind?”

He gave her a pointed look. “You are asking for my opinion on custom mage weaponry?”

“Good point... ooh! How about a _half-staff?_ ”

“What is that?”

“I just made it up. It would be a half-sized staff,” she was eager now, “That way, I would still have a secondary weapon, but one small enough to manoeuvre around your hulk of a sword.”

Calling his sword a hulk was hardly an insult; closer to a compliment, actually… though he kept that to himself.

“That would be far more ideal,” he approved, satisfied that his suggestion was being heeded.

Without waiting to find out if Sandal could even build the odd weapon, they snapped another curtain rail to replace Hawke’s staff and continued with their training. The smaller size made an immediate difference. It didn’t take long for Hawke to adjust to the lighter weight and was soon twisting and swinging it experimentally whilst she avoided the drill blows.

She was a far more serious person whilst training, Fenris noticed, and if he’d not possessed years of discipline, it was likely that she would have been a cause for distraction. Her tenacity was admirable; so very unexpected in a mage.

They continued with her stationary exercises for another hour before finally deciding that she should progress to dodging whilst _moving_. This proved much harder. Ultimately, Hawke was not a warrior, and natural reflex could only get one so far. Her sharpness did not fall to fatigue though, and so whilst their progress was slow, they still made progress. Two hours into this new approach, and Fenris could note a distinct improvement from where she’d started...

Excepting one area.

No matter _how many times_ they practised, Hawke still had a problem with quick pivots; specifically, pivoting backwards. It was such a _basic_ manoeuvre, a mere twisting of feet, and yet it tripped her up every time.

The first time this happened, it had resulted in him whacking her hard in the side. The second in her shoulder, and the third her elbow. To Hawke's credit, she took responsibility for the mishaps – though that had done little to assuage his guilt.

That first strike had upset Fenris more than he’d expected. It had nearly driven him to drop his training sword and demand to inspect her torso for signs of injury; but she’d merely moaned an amused _“oww”_ and taken up her stick again.

He’d still been worried - and a little unnerved - but she seemed alright and he was thankful that his lapse of composure had gone unnoticed.

Then he struck her a fourth time, this time in the back of her knee, which caused her leg to collapse, and he wanted to _snap his damn stick in half_.

“Ow ow _ow_ ,” she grimaced, getting back on her feet, “That one hurt.”

Unclenching his jaw just enough to speak, Fenris asked stiffly, “Are you alright?”

“Yes, I think so,” she sighed, reaching back to rub the abused spot, “I just can’t seem to get those fast turns.”

“You see the stick coming and forget how to pivot back the way you came,” he explained again, watching her unhappily, “You need to be more aware of your feet.”

“I understand the theory, but I seem to be having trouble _applying_ said theory.”

If she couldn’t learn to pivot on instinct, then there was no way she could possibly avoid getting hurt again. No doubt the stubborn fool would just keep making Fenris swing at her, and though he found her determination venerable, he’d already given her several bruises today.

Watching Hawke wince as she shifted weight had him recalling a random incident several years ago - one which echoed many. They’d just wiped out a slaver cave on the Coast, when a dying archer had used his final breath to reach up and stab Hawke in the thigh with an arrow. As she lay bleeding, Fenris had berated the mage for not being more aware, and then groused all through her healing, for the process had held up the party. Once in Kirkwall, he’d gone back to his mansion and not spared another stray thought for the injured woman.

Now the idea of her bearing a bruise made him fretful. What a mad evolution.

There was a lump in his throat as he placed his weapon on the floor, a decision having been reached.

“I will show you,” he said in a commendably level voice.

Trying to appear as steely and detached as possible, he circled around Hawke to stand at her back. The moment she realised what was happening was easy to pick, as her shoulders locked visibly.

The idea that she might be averse to having him touch her did not sit right in his stomach.

“Oh. Um, if you think that's... sure. Ok,” she sputtered, nerves on display.

Being this close to her and keeping focussed was proving to be a challenge. Speed and professionalism; that was what this task required. Maintaining an even tone, he said, “Imagine that a blade is swinging towards your middle. Move accordingly.”

There was a distinct hesitation, but she did as instructed. Both of Hawke's feet shuffled backwards – and of course, she didn’t get very far.

She and Fenris both tensed spectacularly.

Hawke was now flush against his chest, and it was by the Maker's grace alone that his heart and lungs continued to work. Neither of them moved, both wound as tight as though they were standing on a cracking ice lake. Hawke's body was hotter than Fenris had expected, causing a tingle underneath his clothing, and she was so _feminine_ , so _soft_.

It had been a _very_ long time since he'd felt a woman but _celestiem_ , this should not have felt this good.

He hurried to mop some of his melted wits back into place before he moaned or moved or did something equally regrettable. With great effort and not enough breath, he finally said, “That is the same mistake you have been making for an hour.”

The proximity allowed Fenris to hear how heavily Hawke swallowed, and he imagined the little ripple that would have run down her throat then, how it might have felt underneath his fingers-

“Can you– can you show me how to do it right?” Hawke asked.

The question, so meek and innocent, warped inside his mind, and Fenris bared his teeth for the briefest moment, desire yanking at his core. He imagined, if only for a flash, what it might be like to close the distance between his hands and her hips... what it might be like to show her _other_ things.

“You need to pivot,” he rasped, watching with fascination as his breath disturbed some of her hair, “It will remove you from danger faster without taking you out of range.”

Recognising that in a few seconds he’d lose his nerve, Fenris fisted his hand once and then unfurled to still his jitters... then placed it firmly on her thigh. Hawke started, and he only just shifted back in time to avoid her brushing against a very sensitive part of his body.

That part of his body which objected, quite vehemently, to his insistence that he was _not_ attracted to Hawke.

“Move with me,” he murmured, and then pressed his fingers into her leg, urging it to slide backwards with his own.

Her thigh was strong without being hard, and his fingers itched to flex, to test the pliancy of her muscle. For the first few seconds, she hesitated again, staying rigid against his nudging. It was wickedly wonderful, for as long as she remained still, he was not so much pulling her leg, but _gripping_. He dug into her harder without meaning, though it was perhaps interpreted as insistence, for Hawke did finally move.

Their legs slid back together. There was a slight tremble in hers as she did so, and he could not know if it was something to resent or relish. It was likely the former, that she was simply anxious about this intrusion of her personal space – but he could pretend that it was something else. It was wrong that he should defile her emotions in his mind like this, but the idea was there and wouldn’t let go now.

He was not so controlled here.

Emboldened by his degenerate imagination, he brought his other hand up to her hip... which turned out to be a grievous error, for now Fenris knew what it _felt_ like to have her hip in his hand.

His palm curved around it like it belonged there. Tongue darting out to lick his lower lip, he stared down at where they were now connected, at his fingers so boldly brushing against Hawke's clothed pelvic bone. He knew how this _felt_ now, how this _looked_ , and he would never be able to erase the knowledge.

Hawke’s breath hitched brokenly at the contact, like she’d suffered a burst of cold. A shiver passed through her body and into Fenris' chest, and it tested his restraint like nothing had since his days as a fledgling slave. The tendons of his neck were taut enough to snap, his jaw like welded iron.

It wasn’t game enough that the heavens would awaken his... _appetite_ like this, after so long a period of dormancy – no, they had to awaken it for a woman he’d spat on for five years, who probably secretly hated him.

He was barely cognizant of the instructions still coming out of his mouth.

“Rotate,” he said, “Stay on the ball of your foot.”

His true focus was on the hand guiding that hip, that thigh, on the gravel of his voice, the light flutter of Hawke’s hair as she twisted to pivot. Fenris followed her around as she turned, and though his body roared in disapproval, though there was a harsh vicing in his chest, the moment she was still again, he removed both his hands and stepped away.

If he hadn’t done it fast, he may not have done it at all.

It was no surprise when she stalled having to turn around and face him. A terrible thing, but he only hoped that it was due to her own insecurities and not because she’d been aware of his obscene struggles. The delay did allow him the opportunity to quickly “adjust”, and he had to bite his tongue to stop from groaning in discomfort.

Watching her turn was agonizing; he felt completely transparent. A deep blush had spread over her face and neck, and he tried to block it from his thoughts. It didn’t mean anything other than she was self-conscious.

It did _not_ mean that she’d noticed his condition.

“I think I get it now,” she said with mock nonchalance, a tentative smile curving. Mock it may have been, but Fenris would take it and be grateful.

“Good,” he said gruffly, eyes shooting away, “then perhaps we can finally move on.”

They retrieved their weapons and he positioned himself so he had a nice view of the pile of garbage, hoping it would cool his ardour. He could still smell her though, could still recall the contours of her hip, the strength of her thigh…

It was going to be a long day.

✷

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY NEW YEAR, EVERYONE *confetti explosion*!
> 
> I, for one, am really excited about this year, which is totally weird for me. Imma write and change my look and write some more and earn money and play ME3 and move houses and and and... yeah, just really stoked :D. This year, guys. THIS YEAR.


	24. Chapter 24

Their days leading up to the Sundermount trip had been spent mostly training and cleaning, with the occasional interruption to stave off cabin fever. Varric popped in more than once, joining them on the Main Hall floor for lunch or a game of Diamondback, and they hit the Hightown markets a few times as well, where they would shop for candles, food (only staples at this point), and specialised cleaning soaps.

It was a routine that never felt like a routine, and that was mostly Hawke’s influence. She was unerringly vivacious, seeing humour or worth in everything they did. From piling corpses to hitting each other with sticks, she made it all seem like so much _more._

Fenris _enjoyed_ training with her, witnessing the way she quickened and strengthened, knowing that he had played a part in that improvement. The cleaning had also continued to be thoroughly satisfying, and they spent much of that time conversing, which brought him no small amount of peace and pleasure.

Which was why – even though the interruption to their routine was necessary – he woke a tad moody on the morning of the Sundermount trek.

As a parallel to his mood, the day was also very dreary, hardly improving as it wore on. The sun was not overly enthusiastic, casting only weak light on the land – at least, that which could escape the wide, grey clouds blanketed across the sky.

A bad omen if there ever was one.

In case of attack, they’d decided to wear the red sash for the walk, something that had not gone without comment from their travelling companions. Thankfully, they were spared the company of their most impish acquaintances. As it was, Aveline saw the intelligence in the precaution, and Merrill… well, she mostly just cooed over the sash’s pretty colour.

They’d ventured to Hawke Estate to speak with Sandal immediately after completing their first training session, who had been as excited about the half-staff as expected; for all that he seemed a simpleton, the boy grasped matters of enchantment with curious ease. It was uncertain as to whether he had ever constructed a staff (his father was happy to assist in the actual woodwork) but his eagerness instilled some confidence. Hawke had scribbled down the details for the dwarves – wood type, basic length, design – and bestowed them as much allowance as needed to craft the weapon.

It had been a week since they’d commissioned Sandal, but he was not yet done. In addition, Hawke had only just begun to perform her own manoeuvres during training, so she and Fenris were both immensely grateful that the most terrifying foe they'd faced during today's journey was a small sounder of boar.

Now, as they approached the Dalish camp, they unknotted the sash, having agreed that they could do without the added scrutiny. While she tugged at the binding, Hawke asked, “Any idea what we should expect, Merrill?”

“A lot of glaring,” the girl replied, toeing the red fabric as it coiled upon the ground.

“No,” Hawke said, amused, “about what Marethari wants us to do.”

The elf stopped prodding the sash, looking deeply dejected, as she usually did when she didn’t have answers. “Oh, no, I’m sorry, I really haven’t a clue.”

After Hawke had stashed the sash in the satchel at her hip, the group passed the camp sentries, who daggered them with even sharper stares than usual. More eyes, just as fierce, were upon them as soon as they entered; obviously, the clan had been informed of their visitors’ intention to stay the night.

If it was possible, the tenebrous sky made the camp seem even more unwelcoming. The abnormally severe colours of Sundermount remained untouched by the greyness cast over the land; instead, they were accentuated by the shadows which deepened around and in between. It never smelt of nature here either, not as it should anyway. There was the faint sent of scorched grass, of rotted wood – of nature that had been spoiled.

A lazy but cold wind was blowing across the mountain base, just cruel enough to chap the lips and burn the eyes. At his side, Hawke was folding her arms across her chest protectively, her demure, grey robes fluttering against the breeze. She’d told Fenris not long ago that, whilst she enjoyed the cold, she was no fan of the wind.

The hiss of the breeze could not smother the not-quite-whispers which followed the group as they stalked through the site.

 _“The stupid shemlen still keeps Merrill around.”_

 _“The tall flat-ear looks even more feral.”_

 _“She will bleed us all!”_

 _“That glowing fen’alas makes my skin crawl.”_

The clan’s distaste for Hawke and her companions had always been apparent, but it was particularly potent today. These insults about Fenris’ markings were nothing new here; they were foreign, intimidating, and belonged to a non-elf – that was enough to earn the clan's disgust. And truly, he was not an elf to these vagrants.

 _Venhedis_ , he hated the Dalish. Despising humans was one thing, but to not even recognise those like Fenris as elven was unforgivably self-righteous.

They approached the Keeper, who was stirring the contents of a small, bronze cauldron perched above the campfire. She lifted from the task and smiled, and he supposed that if there was only one person in the camp who didn’t want them dead, the leader was the best choice.

“ _Andaran atish’an_ ,” she greeted in her lilting accent, tapping the spoon upon the cauldron rim, “I am pleased that you could come.”

A strong odour was furling upward from the pot, reminiscent of burnt cheese – the colour was not much different. There was another smell beneath it, something earthy and familiar. He scanned the ground… and yes, he knew it; there lay a small pile of _vheravi_. This substance was a potion, and most definitely connected to the tether situation.

“Fair Day,” Hawke nodded, still hugging against the wind, “thank you for having us in your camp again. Though, I admit to having very little clue as to what we’ll be doing here.”

The Keeper extended her twiggy arm towards the sitting logs. “Forgive me. I simply prefer to speak of matters of magic in person.”

There was a chorus of rustles and clangs as they all removed their weapons, then spread out over three different logs. Hawke seated at Fenris' right, unabashedly using him as a wind shield.

“Before we begin,” said Marethari, folding her hands primly upon her lap, “I should like to hear how you are faring. The bond must be a great obstacle.”

He and Hawke slid each other a glance.

“We’re doing better, I think,” Hawke gave him a lopsided smile, which he returned with a wry smirk.

He eyed her scrub-burned palms pointedly and then drifted to her elbow, which he knew to still be bruised from training. “Ah yes, naught but smooth sailing, I daresay.”

Hawke's eyes twinkled with silent laughter, leaving his insides feeling as though they had been immersed in warm water. It was a strange relief to hear her acknowledge their improved relationship like this, outside of his manor walls. Part of him had expected that, without the safety of privacy, she would deny their tentative accord. He knew it was hypocritical, given his own grapples with denial.

“ _Emma nehn_ , that is good to hear,” the Keeper said, and they refocussed.

Peering forward for a better look, Aveline asked, “Is that a potion you are brewing?”

“Indeed it is, child,” the old elf smiled, the feathers of her pauldrons flicking up with the wind, “It has been brewing for a half month now, and must brew for at least a half month more. It is also the reason I have asked your friends here.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Merrill piped hopefully, sitting straighter.

“I believe so,” Marethari replied, “and perhaps you as well, Guard-Captain.”

“Me?” Aveline blurted, looking briefly to Hawke, then back to the Keeper.

“Fear not, it is only a small matter.”

Hawke squinted at the potion suspiciously. “Just what exactly do you need us to do, Keeper?”

The elder swept her arm towards a pair of thick, worn volumes sitting by her log; next to them sat the _vheravi_ , their thin petals fluttering wildly as the breeze snaked through the grass.

“I have studied the _an’ravi_ stone and old texts both _Elvhen_ and Tevinter,” the Keeper said, “I have created a potion which I believe, when used in the ritual I am constructing, will break your magical bond.”

“But there’s more to this potion?” Hawke asked, voicing Fenris’ own thought, right down to the note of trepidation.

The Keeper blinked slowly as way of affirmation. “This elixir must be perfectly attuned to your energies. It requires your blood.”

Anger dug its nails into Fenris hard enough to make his lyrium hurt, and he snarled, “Absolutely _not_.”

At the same time Hawke threw up her hands and said, “Whoa, I don’t think so.”

The Keeper held up her palm and spoke over them, exasperated. “ _Dar’atisha_ , children. I do not speak of blood magic.”

“Do not bother with your lies, crone,” Fenris snapped. Even if it meant being bound forever, he would never willingly engage in forbidden magic. If Hawke even looked to consider it, he would strike her across the head and carry her back to Kirkwall. Nothing was worth the cost of their souls.

Merrill crossed her arms, brow scrunching in indignation. “This is completely unfair. The clan made me leave for this very reason.”

“Artemis,” Aveline warned, “you know I won’t allow you to use blood magic.”

The Keeper swept them all a patient, supplicating look. “I swear to you, this is _not_ blood magic.”

Fenris’ anger swelled. “You expect us to–”

“ _Peace_ ,” she implored, and as the elder had never once sounded so _annoyed_ , he found himself pausing. “I swear by _Mythal_ that the blood is a harmless component of the potion. Be assured that I would never consider a path which involved dark magicks.”

The words were insistent, her gaze sincere. But the Keeper was still a mage, and her once-First a maleficar, no less. He remained sharp, ready to rip off the mask should he find one of its edges.

“You absolutely _promise_ that our blood would only be an ingredient?” Hawke pressed, searching the Keeper’s face as intently as Fenris was doing.

“It would be no different than using your hair or skin,” she smiled, “The blood is more connected to the spirit though, which is why I would prefer to use it.”

Hawke made a staccato clucking sound as she mulled it over, and they all fell silent, granting her a moment to think. Finally, she turned to Fenris.

“I believe her,” she said, “and even if I’m wrong, I’ll know before she can do anything.”

He was still wary, but there was comfort in the fire in her eyes, the determined set to her mouth. That fierceness was an assurance of what he already knew – Hawke would never let anyone use him for blood magic.

Chary, but trusting, he nodded his consent.

“Thank you,” she said, face softening, and then addressed the Keeper, “Can we do this quickly, please?”

“Of course. But there is one more difficulty.”

Legendary patience fraying, Hawke pushed a thumb into the upper bridge of her nose and sighed. “ _Venhedis_ , of course there is.”

Faster than a lightning crack, Fenris whipped his face to hers. In the background, Merrill let loose a wild giggle. Certain his ears were faulty, he frowned and asked, “What did you just say?”

“I said _'of course there is'_...?” Hawke answered confusedly, taking in the strange expressions of her companions.

Entertained, Aveline said, “You just cussed in Tevinter.”

“No I didn’t.”

Fenris’ lips twitched in amusement, this earnest confusion wretchedly charming. “I heard you, Hawke.”

“You’re lying,” she waved her hand dismissively, “Liars, the lot of you.”

There was something very wrong with a man who found himself warm with pride at hearing a woman curse. It was a testament to how much time they’d spent together, that she had unconsciously adopted one of his idiosyncrasies. He wondered if he’d fallen prey to any of hers.

“If we might return to the matter at hand,” Keeper Marethari interjected, and Hawke mouthed _‘liar’_ to him once more before redirecting her attention. He barely covered his chuckle with a cough.

Ridiculous woman.

“Yes,” she sighed, “you were saying something about another problem.”

“Indeed,” Marethari said heavily, the sudden sombreness in her tone effectively dampening their good cheer, “The blood I need must be drawn when you are at your most individual.”

It shouldn’t have been possible for Hawke’s skin to get any paler, but there it went. “Do you mean what I think you mean?”

She stared at them unblinkingly, sucking them into her lucent stare. “I’m afraid so. You must be outside the range of your bonds.”

They both became as rigid as rock, the memories of their last breach still stark. It had been a while since they’d stepped beyond the boundary, and for very good reason.

Face ashen, Hawke said, “And this is why we need Merrill and Aveline…”

At her name, the Captain frowned. “I still don’t understand, Hawke.”

“You’ll need to draw the blood,” she explained, and Fenris became irrationally angry with the Keeper for causing the fear thickening her words, “Fenris and I will be... a bit, um...”

“Incapacitated,” he supplied.

Hawke was gripping the log so hard there would be gouges. Watching her increasing distress, he resolved that this would need to be done fast, like ripping a broken arrow from one’s shoulder. There could be no thought or hesitation.

Fastening his resolve, Fenris rose to his feet, and they all watched curiously; having noticed his sudden movement, the elves nearest to the campfire also turned their heads. Realising his intent, Hawke managed a weak smile and stood as well.

“You wish to perform the task now, I take it?” Marethari asked, standing.

“No,” Hawke muttered, “but we will.”

✷

They moved just beyond the confines of the camp, past the pillars which sat adjacent to Master Ilen’s workbench. The Dalish would still hear them, but they could at least imagine privacy.

Their companions had been briefed, and then equipped with daggers and clay bowls. Impulsively, Fenris had ‘claimed’ Aveline as his blood collector, not relishing the idea of Merrill coming near him with a knife. Now, however, seeing the anxiety pour off the witch as she waited to the side, he worried that she might accidentally gut Hawke during this ordeal. Pushing the thought – and everything else – firmly from his mind, Fenris focussed only on the woman in front of him.

This felt a very personal moment. The tether, the consequences of testing its limit, the way they’d had to adjust their lives – it could never be properly comprehended by anyone other than Fenris and Hawke.

No one could properly comprehend just _how much_ this was going to hurt.

“All this effort to avoid stepping out of range and here we are about to skip right on out,” she muttered nervously. The others had given them a respectful berth, recognising that this was a private moment, even if they didn’t truly understand why.

He coughed a laugh, glad to hear that she still had a sense of humour. “I will leave the skipping to you. I intend a much less feminine exit.”

The comment had the desired effect, her laughter bubbling out and adding some colour to her cheeks.

She was always loveliest when she laughed.

The task could not be delayed though, no matter how reluctant he was to snuff that joyous sound.

“Shall we?” he said drily, trying to exude as much confidence as possible for her sake, and with a shaky breath, she nodded.

They each took a large step back, already bringing them dangerously close to the edge of the boundary. Only one more small step each and they would be out. They stared each other down, and he could see the tremor in her hands as they fiddled with her out-dated robes.

All of her robes were plain like this, unpatterned and far too large, hanging off her frame like they were meant for a person twice her size; there was a single line of stitching to pull the garment in at the waist, but it hardly offered shape, hidden as it was beneath the fabric drooping down from her chest.

All of her robes were ugly, but they also suited Hawke. Maybe then, that meant that they weren’t _ugly_ , per se, but simply… different.

“This is all very tense,” Merrill twittered, snapping him from his random musings - peoples' minds tend to wander into the most peculiar places when they're nervous. Aveline hissed for her to shut up, but the remark at least managed to draw another tremulous laugh from Hawke. It didn’t take long for the laughter to wither into a haggard inhale.

No more stalling.

A final second to steel their spines, an unspoken agreement, and then they were both stepping backwards.

There was a rupture in the depths of Fenris’ body, and brutal chaos burst forth. It knocked him to his knees, and a cry shredded his throat to ribbons as it was released, turning his voice into a mere sputter.

There was glass in his gut, scraping across his organs. He could already taste bile, burning and acrid, and he coughed, which only shifted the glass in his gut more violently. The jagged shards were tangled in his insides, lodging and nicking and tearing.

Even in the midst of this torture, Hawke’s screams were unmistakeable. He _hated_ that sound. It made him want to claw his ears off, to do _anything_ that would save him from the pain of hearing Hawke in so much torment. Instinct told him to hurl forward, _to stop those sobs_ , but there were hands on him. He could hardly see through this haze of agony, only catching a flash of silver, a flicker of fiery orange hair.

And then there was something on his palm, and his skin was splitting, _really_ splitting. He thrashed and shouted, the shards in his guts slicing him to pieces, the skin on his palm ripping apart.

He was going to be sick with this, and the sounds from Hawke mimicked his own. Just as rage or madness was about to sink its teeth though, something wrenched his arm, and then–

It was over.

Air, icy and serrated, rushed into his lungs. He was belly down on the grass, his face turned to the side, the swampish smell of Sundermount irritating his nostrils.

The pain was already becoming a phantom, but a strong one. He was clammy and stiff, but that didn’t matter, because he hadn’t yet made sure that Hawke was well. As he pushed himself up, a fiercely concerned Aveline asked, “Are you alright?”

He only just noticed her crouched by his side. The dagger lay on the grass by the clay bowl, both of which were splattered with his blood.

“I am fine,” he said roughly, still tasting bile, “Hawke?”

“I’m ok, Fenris,” she murmured, and he lifted his head to find her kneeling, arms supporting her as she keeled forward to catch her breath. The grass beneath her palm was stained red.

“That was so _scary_ ,” Merrill said, a blood-spattered hand on Hawke’s shoulder, her own knife and bowl also abandoned, “Did you think it would be so scary, Aveline?”

“No,” Aveline answered grimly, “I can’t say that I did.”

From somewhere behind – though Fenris was paying little attention – the Keeper said, “It is over now, children. I am sorry that you all had to endure such a trial. I will know by morning if the potion is taking to the blood.”

The chatter was only vague, as his focus was mostly on getting closer to Hawke. Thankfully, the ache was fading swiftly, though the open cut on his palm was still stinging persistently.

When he was but a foot from her hunched form, he stopped, feeling a pang at the raggedness of her breathing.

Quietly, just enough for her to hear, he said, “You did not skip.”

And she laughed.

And only then was it over.

✷


	25. Chapter 25

The dour sunset had given way to a very dark night, so the party kept their fire well-fed. They had set camp in the same spot where they’d performed the range breach; it was _technically_ outside of the Dalish site, even if to say so was overt hair-splitting. Still, they felt more comfortable here than they would have if they’d accepted Marethari’s offer to sleep by her campfire.

Seated on their bed rolls, they ate their bland but wholesome supper of boiled potatoes. Hawke had positioned herself closer to Fenris than was usual, but it was certainly understandable given their earlier trial, and it wasn’t exactly unwelcome either.

Since they’d set camp, they had largely been left alone by the Dalish. However, the uppity wanderers made no effort to keep their sniping unheard and stared without inhibition. Mostly, the comments were about their exiled First, but there was also much to say about the marked Tevinter _flat-ear_. Given that Fenris had been openly contemptuous about their ways during his visits over the years, it was hardly shocking that they would take this opportunity to deal a few jabs of their own.

“Just ignore them,” Merrill said sadly, when an especially nasty hiss drifted over, “They simply don’t understand.”

“Spare me,” he clipped, mashing a chunk of potato with a bit too much force.

Their ever-tactful Guard-Captain swooped in immediately. “Let’s just talk about something else,” she said, orange hair shimmering blindingly in the firelight as she turned to Hawke, “Have you heard Isabela’s party plan?”

Hawke quickly swallowed a mouthful of food, though her voice was still a bit clogged when she answered. “Should I ask for details or just starting quaking with fear now?”

With a shrug too casual to be casual, Aveline replied, “She wants you and Fenris to host one.”

“ _What?_ ” she and Fenris chorused, much to his chagrin; synchronised reactions were a sure sign that they’d spent way too much time tethered.

“Actually,” Aveline continued, smoothing away the funny look she'd just been giving them, “I don’t think it’s the worst idea.”

Merrill jumped in before they could properly process the situation, her eyes already wide with possibility, “Can we wear dresses? I haven’t worn a dress since mine caught fire at your Name Day dinner, Aveline.”

The Captain frowned. “You’re not really selling the idea, Merrill.”

“I promise I won’t play with the candles this time,” the girl assured, “It was just so pretty, the way I could write my name in the air.”

Spoon flying about, Hawke exclaimed, “Wait, just hold up there! Why in Thedas does Isabela want _us_ to host a party?”

“Specifically, we– she wants you to host it in Fenris’ manor,” Aveline explained, “since you’ve been fixing the place up.”

The warrior woman was secretly eager, that much was obvious. Disbelieving, and mildly disillusioned, Fenris said, “And _you_ support this idiocy?”

“It's not idiocy, Fenris,” she said impatiently, “Would it really be so terrible to celebrate all of your hard work?”

Though he didn’t doubt that this was at least part of her motivation, he’d learned enough from Hawke's tales that Aveline could hardly resist a good dinner party. The warrior was a closet gentlewoman, and Fenris wasn't sure how he felt about that. Honestly, he'd have preferred to continue believing her to be forged of steel and nothing more; people were easier to understand when they were but one thing.

To his mounting horror, Hawke tapped his arm with her spoon and said in an _interested_ tone, “Let’s just… think about this for a moment.”

“There is nothing to think about!” he burst, scanning her eyes for a trace of sense, “You can’t honestly expect me to host a _dinner party?_ ”

The statement was met with a round of feminine laughter.

Void take all women.

“Why not?” Hawke asked excitedly, “I promise, I won’t make you wear anything puffy.”

“ _Tea subilesi_ , we are not doing this.”

Merrill tutted. “Don’t be such an old shoe, Fenris.”

“You could both use a night to relax,” Aveline implored, mask of indifference slipping more by the second.

The miserable harpies were ganging up on him. It was too much too hope that Hawke would have taken his side.

“It’s settled!” she cheered, a piece of potato flinging away as she waved her utensil again, “When the manor’s all pretty, we’ll throw a dinner party!”

“ _How is it settled?_ ”

“Shh, you worry too much, my fine-feathered housemate.”

“You are impossible,” he scowled, tossing his empty bowl to the side in what felt like an obscure admission of defeat.

Maybe it wasn’t too late to make his mansion filthy again.

“Ooh, this is so exciting,” Merrill’s teeth were all but chattering, “I think I’ll wear ribbons this time.”

 _Ribbons_. He could feel his masculinity shrivelling. There was nothing he could contribute to a conversation about _ribbons_.

Pleased with herself, Aveline turned to Hawke. “What about you? Need any help choosing a gown?”

Fenris hoped no one noticed the way his entire body had just stiffened.

A gown. Hawke in a _gown._

Even at past events, Hawke had only worn robes – more elaborate than usual, but still robes.

 _Hawke in a gown._

“Oh, I, no, I don’t think–”

“No, you said yes to the party; you're not allowed to do that,” Aveline put down her own empty bowl and folded her arms, “If you’re the host, you have to dress appropriately.”

He wondered if she’d read that somewhere, perhaps in some book of etiquette she kept hidden.

A shade of anxiety passed over Hawke’s face, her self-consciousness leaking through. It still astounded him that someone so blatantly… that someone who looked like _that_ could ever think herself unattractive.

“I can’t drag Fenris around to dressmakers,” she blurted, and the excuse was not one of her finest. She’d already dragged him everywhere else, after all.

Undeterred, Aveline countered coolly, “Fine, I know your size; I’ll pick the gown and just bring it to the manor.”

“ _Fine_ ,” Hawke bristled, “But make it green you _cow._ ”

“ _Fine._ ”

“ _Fine._ ”

This was the most pitiful display of hostility he’d ever witnessed. At least, he _thought_ it was hostility; he didn’t really know anymore. The pair glared at each other for a moment longer, then broke into reluctant smirks.

Fenris officially had no idea what was going on.

The women talked about the dinner party for a good hour, a discussion from which he steered clear. Unfortunately, that meant that his mind was left to wander; or, more accurately, to fixate...

Hawke in a dress. Even having lived with Hawke for so long, the true shape of her body was but a mirage in his mind; blurry, imagined. He wanted to see Hawke. In his mind, she also finally had her hair down; its length unclear and shifting due his lack of reference, but still _down_. The possibility of finally seeing her free of that barrette almost made this harebrained party idea tolerable.

She had to say his name twice before he realised she was speaking to him at all.

“My apologies,” he mumbled, not quite meeting her eye, “You were saying?”

“I’m ready to go down to the river,” she said cheerfully, tapping her knees before standing.

Brilliant, because listening to Hawke bathe would surely help his fluster. Their companions remained silent on the matter, having enough sense not to question this unorthodox washing routine. Or to be accurate, _Aveline_ had enough sense – the blood mage had opened her mouth, and it was only the Guard-Captain’s muttered warning which had thwarted whatever obliviously suggestive comment she’d been about to unleash.

Rather warm around the ears, he gathered his materials and followed Hawke back into the Dalish camp, which they would need to cross in order to reach the right path. The vicious whispers, which had previously ceased, began before they’d even covered a third of the ground.

“Look, _lethallin, soap_. They are about to bathe in our stream,” a woman with lank black hair said to her companion, sharp teeth bared in a sneer.

“That magic _vallas_ will taint the water.”

It was not often that Hawke glared, but she did now. She whipped her head to the bitching elves, stabbing them a look that was inappropriately thrilling. However, Fenris kept his emotions leashed and simply drawled, “They are not worth your breath.”

For the shortness of his temper, he was so accustomed to being singled out in public that he'd stopped - _mostly_ stopped - biting at the bait a long time ago. That aside, he did not feel so affected when Hawke was by his side.

They hurried on, Hawke's back much straighter than it had been before as she said breathlessly, “I try to play nice, but they don’t make it easy.”

“You make it look easy,” he said with absent honesty, still ignoring the stream of whispers following them through the camp.

She gave him a sheepish smile. “Well, it’s not. At least, not when they insist on attacking the people I care about.”

It was only years of physical conditioning which saved Fenris from losing his footing. She cared about him, he'd already known that on some, repressed level, but it was how _naturally_ the words had slipped from her mouth that was so significant.

He frowned into the darkness. Too easily Hawke forgave his trespasses. He was not worth her indignation, and he was certainly not worthy of caring for her in return.

So deeply was Fenris buried within his mind, he hardly noticed when they passed the sentries, didn’t realise the obstruction in their path until it had begun to speak.

“Out of our way, _shemlen_.”

Four young elves stood before them, returning from a bath if their damp hair was any indication. The chatoyancy of their eyes was menacing in the darkness.

It was always the younger ones which posed the most trouble.

“I believe the correct phrase is: _please, excuse us_ ,” Hawke snipped, chin lifting. She remained rooted, not willing to move around the group. It was intriguing to behold.

The same elf spoke, a weedy boy with a shaved scalp. “We agreed only to permit you entry into our camp, not to extend you warmth.”

“I do not ask for warmth, only civility.”

“Your kind do not know the word. Now step aside, _dorf’lin_.”

The group sniggered, and Fenris did not need to be fluent in the language to recognise that the boy had just insulted Hawke. Anger flickered through his body and he jerked forward just enough to make the runts start. “Watch your words or I shall tear out your throat,” he growled, fingers flexing.

Hawke gasped, “Fenris–”

“Yes, call off your hound,” a brunette girl interrupted, her arms folded in a pitiful act of defiance, “It is offence enough that you bring it here at all.”

“The city has spoiled his blood.”

“See how he defends the _shemlen_.”

“Go back to your alienage, _fen’alas._ ”

Rage crashed against the casing of his insides, splattering up and up into his throat, seeping out through his skin. His markings flared, enough to cause the detestable creatures to flinch. He opened his mouth, a roar ready to loose–

And then Hawke beat him to it.

“ _You will all shut up and listen!_ ”

The words echoed through the night, no doubt heard across the camp. They were all stunned into silence, but she wasted no time, and unleashed a tirade of heroic proportions, a tirade of the likes he’d never imagined to hear from anyone.

“You are so ready to fling hate at my friend? Then allow me to say _this_ ,” her face was a splotchy red, her knuckles white around her drying cloth, “You know _nothing_. Nothing about the world as it truly is, nothing about the man next to me. You latch onto the tragedies of your ancestors and use them as an excuse to _hate_.”

The brunette was furious, her voice a screech. “We toil to reclaim our heritage and these _flat-ears_ do nothing. Like _this_ one; he _spits_ on us.”

“ _I said shut up!_ ” Hawke cried, and he could only watch in awe, “There you go again, using history as a defence, and again, you prove that you know _nothing. Nothing_ about slavery, _nothing_ about losing your past – no, not your ancestors', but your _own_ past – and _nothing_ about truly fighting for freedom. You are not fit to look upon Fenris with anything less than your deepest respect. Now, _please excuse us._ ”

And with that, she grabbed his arm and barrelled through the group of mute, ashen-faced Dalish. They marched along the path and were not followed – though that was a distant thought.

All was distant and irrelevant.

All but Hawke.

He’d never felt such a burst, such an _explosion_ of… he couldn’t even properly describe the feeling. Gratitude, pride – _so much pride_ – and even something like safety.

The hand upon his arm didn’t retreat, though it did soften as they trudged through the darkness, and perhaps that meant that she was aware that she hadn’t removed it, that she was choosing to keep it there. And he didn’t want it to move. He wanted to feel her, wanted to say something, do something.

All was silent until they reached the clearing, not counting the hammering in his ears or the noises of the night. The river was an endless expanse of black and silver, the moon having escaped the sheet of cloud. This portion of the bank was small though, encased by high mossy rocks and trees.

It was lovely, but... and this was a dangerous, indelible thought... he knew, without question, that he had never seen anything quite so lovely as the woman who was now standing before him.

“I’m sorry,” she said immediately, surprising him all over again, “I didn’t intend to lose it like that. They’d just been _jabbing_ and _jabbing_ all day and then to say those things! I hope I didn’t offend you by stepping in–”

“You did not offend me,” he croaked, and though the words were heavy with his straining emotion, they were not even close to what he wanted to say. The problem was he didn’t _know_ what he wanted to say. The adrenaline pumping through his veins didn't help matters.

“That is a relief,” she breathed, tension evaporating from her like steam, “You know I’m not usually prone to outbursts.”

“It is fine,” he said dumbly, automatically. _Omuni it maldae_ , he was an unforgivable craven.

That familiar, glorious smile pulled at her lips, and she joked, “Then let us just forget this little lapse in my sanity, shall we?”

 _No_ , he wanted to say, for then he would never be able to express what it had meant to him.

And yet, he just nodded.

For another moment, they stared at each other, he struggling to take a step he’d never taken, and Hawke’s expression growing curious at his reticence.

Without comment, she took a step back and said, “I guess I should bathe now. I guarantee that Aveline will have planned the whole dinner party in the short time we’ve been gone, right down to the candles and the porcelain.”

Soul quaking beneath the weight of his shame and frustration, Fenris turned to let Hawke undress…

Then those final words sunk properly.

“ _Wait._ ”

He spun back around, and though Hawke flinched, she had done nothing more than place her materials on the ground.

That last statement had triggered one memory and one desire, and an impulsive, maniacal idea had barged to the forefront of Fenris’ mind.

“Is everything ok?” she asked, stepping closer.

“Yes… it is just…”

This was the worst idea anyone had ever had. But he _knew_ he wanted this. He was so unsure about what his feelings meant, what he should do about them, but this was one, tiny thing that he was _certain_ he wanted.

His heart was already in a frenzy.

“Fenris?” she was concerned now, and no wonder, given the way he was straining to speak.

“I wish–” he cleared his throat and tried again, “I wish to use my boon.”

It was the mention of porcelain which had roused the memory. Already he felt like cringing, spinning away and pretending this never happened.

Hawke was understandably dumbfounded. Likely, she had never expected Fenris to take the bet they’d made in the Main Hall seriously – he certainly had not.

Before cowardice could take proper root, he continued in a rush. “Part of the boon is that you cannot question me.”

It was cheating and a bit unfair, but these were his terms. There would be no hope of following through if explanations were necessary. When she didn’t say anything, only studied him warily, he feared she might renege on her promise.

But then there was the smallest dip of her head and there was no turning back from this foolishness.

For all that his insides were swirling, his hands were unexpectedly steady as he lifted them, and she stayed perfectly still. When his fingers reached behind her head and found the barrette, there was a sweet hitch of her breath which made his own lungs constrict. Having studied the accessory at length, he already knew how it would work, and so in a few quick manoeuvres, the task was done.

And her hair came free.

Like molten gold, it poured down and down. Over her shoulders, down her back, long enough to brush her elbows. The cascade of hair was streaked with silver, the moonlight washing over it and only adding to its beauty.

And it _was_ beautiful. _She_ was beautiful.

Hawke’s eyes were wide and lustrous, the night slightly altering their usual colour, giving them the appearance of twin peridots. The barrette in one hand, he used the other to carefully move more of her hair to the front, and he was so thankful that he’d already removed his gauntlets at supper.

The tresses were cool from the night, softer than any thread as they fell across his hand. Even after being bound all day, they were perfectly straight – like golden rain.

The hair released that creamy scent, and though he longed to tilt just that bit forward and experience it fully, feel the soft strands against his face, he would refrain. This would be enough.

Eyes glittering, and pale, full lips parted – Hawke was breathtaking; and though Fenris could not recognise that emotion on her face, it only made his heart pound harder.

This image of her by the lake, gold and silver and white, would haunt him until the end of his days.

With that acceptance, he removed his hand, watching the tendrils of hair slip through his fingers with a tightening throat, and then turned around.

Though it felt wrong, he placed the barrette on the grass by his feet. Again, there was silence.

For a long time, there was silence.

But these had been his terms and Hawke had agreed.

The barrette disappeared, his boon had been granted, and so came time to return to reality.

✷

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Copypasta from the original post:
> 
> So yeah, it's part of my Aveline headcanon that she likes dinner parties and formal occasions. Not just in general though; she likes the intimacy of dining with loved ones and how very _conventional_ the practice of dinner parties is; how _proper_ and _mature_ they are. She's tough-as-nails, but she also possesses a desire for a family and a "normal", peaceful life.


	26. Chapter 26

True to her word, Hawke said nothing about what happened by the lake. Not that night, not during the long trek back to Kirkwall, or any of the days following. She would cast him looks however, sometimes ones which burned with curiosity; but other times they were shy, soft, and in Fenris’ weaker moments, they would lead his thoughts to forbidden territory. However, it was too much to hope that there might be some deeper meaning at play. Hope was brittle, and so he made care not to hold it too tightly. This puzzling, conflicted relationship they’d established would have to be enough.

They fell back into their routine with ease, and though Fenris now found himself occasionally fantasizing during their training sessions – specifically, how Hawke’s hair might look were it unbound, whipping through the air, floating across her shoulders and arms as she spun about – for the most part, the regimen offered excellent distraction.

With the majority of the manor’s waste finally cleared - excepting the bodies still piled in the West Wing, and the latest heap of trash sitting between the Main Hall staircases - they began to purchase household necessities. It was too easy to forget that the tether would one day be broken, that his house was not technically Hawke’s house, and so Fenris did not feel quite as uncomfortable about the shopping as he probably should have.

The manor no longer felt like it was his alone.

He still felt discomfort, certainly, but before the binding, he’d have all but gagged at the idea of someone wishing to furnish his manor. He did limit the purchases as much as possible, but Hawke had been lost to excitement. They ordered most of their goods as opposed to collecting them on site, organising them to be delivered in a week’s time, when the manor should be fit for furnishing.

Their final order list was extensive: new drying cloths, closets for clothes and linens, a few mirrors, lamps and oil, a bureau, several books, actual blankets and pillows, and new cutlery. His favourite orders, however (that he possessed favourites at all would be added to the list of information to take to the grave), were the new rug for the fireplace, a huge, circular rug for the Main Hall, and the new crockery – the last pleased him the most, and he and Hawke had shared a smirk as they’d made the order.

Wise enough not to risk losing paying customers through insult, the merchants limited their opinions of the unlikely buyers to inquisitorial glances. The milling nobles were as open with their stares and gossip as usual, but Hawke was as unflappable as ever. As long as her companions were not the focus of someone’s ill-attention, she seemed fine to endure silently.

On the morning of the day they were set to assist Isabela with her task, their happy routine of shopping, cleaning and training was interrupted. Usually satisfied that Fenris would wake shortly after herself, Hawke left nothing to chance this morning. This time, she actually _shook_ him to waking.

 _Shook him._

Feeling her hands on his bare arm was not the most unpleasant sensation first thing in the morning, but he could have done without the infantile pushing and rocking. He was not _surprised_ by the wake-up call, given the message they’d received the previous afternoon, but that did nothing to clear the dizzying fog in his brain.

Ignoring the tap of her foot and her impatient tutting, he took his time dressing, grumbling all the while. The second he announced he was done, she was all but dragging him out of the house and across Hightown. Fortunately, he was spared the guilt of rousing Hawke’s servants, as they were already up, even at this early hour. That was not routine, as he’d discovered during his time at her estate, which could only mean that they had expected their mistress’s zeal.

It was warm inside the manor, at the very least, but Fenris stood by Hawke's side with determined moodiness as she joined the the dwarves hovering over Sandal’s workbench, upon which sat a rod-shaped objected covered by red felt.

“Finished as promised, milady,” Bodahn nodded proudly, stepping out of the way to allow Hawke access.

A missive had been delivered to Fenris’ manor yesterday, informing that Hawke’s staff commission would be ready by the morning. She hadn’t been able to shut up about it all night, though the vast majority of her rambling had been lost on him. All her talk of conduction to output ratios, the amplification benefits of the different compass points, the balance of… something else he didn’t understand… it was all jibberish. The woman often didn’t remember or didn’t care that Fenris had about as much enthusiasm for magic as he did internal bleeding.

“I’m all twitchy!” she tittered, then thrust her hand palm-down in front of Fenris, “Look! I’m shaking Fenris! Look!”

Still annoyed at having been woken so brashly, he glared at the appendage and groused, “Get your hand out of my face and grab your wretched staff.”

“You are just the biggest sourpuss,” she tutted, removing that hand to perch it on her hip, “Remember, this was partially your idea.”

“Shoving me around like a ragdoll this morning most certainly was not, however,” he said.

“It’s in the past Fenris, let it go.”

“It happened a half hour ago!”

Sandal stepped in then, face unsure. “Boom?”

Attention diverted, Hawke laughed and placed a hand on the boy’s head. “Only a very _small_ boom. Don’t worry, we have them all the time.”

A grin stretched the dwarf’s already-broad face and he nodded in understanding.

“Good lad,” she said fondly, “Now, let’s see this staff, shall we?”

They all returned their focus to the table, but _still_ Hawke hesitated. She had stuck a thumb nail in her mouth and was now chewing the tip while she contemplated the veiled weapon. Fenris, on the other hand, was contemplating reciprocating her earlier actions and giving her a good shake. “What are you _waiting_ for, you fool mage?” he exclaimed.

Without looking away from the package, she said, “Quiet pricklebutt, I’m savouring.”

“Well _stop._ ”

 _And never use that nickname again._

“Oh fine,” she huffed, and in one swift flourish, whipped the felt from the weapon.

It might have been a pile of diamonds underneath for the way she reacted.

Both hands shot up to her mouth, not at all stifling her dramatic gasp. Eyes wide enough to eat her face, pupils dilating, lip trembling behind her fingers, she might have been looking upon not just a pile of diamonds, but the _Maker’s throne._

It was the most absurd reaction, but she was... this word shouldn’t even have been in his vocabulary... she was... _omuni it maldae_ , she was _cute._

It felt wrong even thinking such a thing. He felt embarrassed and exposed, like people - people like Varric, he thought madly - would take one look at Fenris and _know_ that he'd thought the word.

Slowly, Hawke lowered her hands, and then reverently reached out to the staff. He prayed to anyone who might be listening that she didn’t suddenly burst into song or tears.

If _only_ viewing the weapon as a piece of craftsmanship and not a staff, Fenris could appreciate it aesthetically. It helped that it looked so different from normal staves, not triggering that instant detestation. What first drew his attention were the ends. At one, was a shiny, silver ball, which acted as a counterweight to the feature at the tip: a silver set of wings (the ‘Hawke’ name used as inspiration, no doubt), which were spread out and upward to form a smiling curve.

But what _held_ his attention was what featured _in between_. The wood, bleached white, had been perfectly polished, but it was not perfectly smooth. Slightly raised in a way that was intimately familiar, was a pattern of lines and whorls, all of gleaming silver.

Fenris stared, mouth slightly agape, unsure what to make of the design. He did not know whether to be repulsed or intrigued, for there was no doubt that his own markings had been the inspiration. And just then, he watched Hawke’s fingers dance across the pattern with such adoration, that the word ‘ _inspiration_ ’ took on an all new, wonderful meaning.

“This is beautiful,” she whispered, and every inch of him tingled from the inside out.

After all, she could have been speaking about him.

Sandal clapped his hands even more enthusiastically than normal, and then stopped to point at the pole of the staff and then at Fenris. “Elf Shiny!”

Fenris was the inspiration. Hawke giggled and nodded, fraying his nerves just that little bit more. Cradling the weapon in both hands, she turned around to him, her cheeks pink and eyes bright.

“I was having trouble with the design element,” she explained, a vague, nervous tremble in her voice, “Then I… I thought of you, and… well, you see.”

It would do no good to lose his wits now, not when his body was telling him to do something very, very rash. Using humour as a mask, he quirked a brow and said, “If you think me the best design available, then I fear your vision is failing.”

It was meant as a jest, but her face softened so significantly that his being trembled. “I see just fine, actually.”

If Bodahn had not surreptitiously cleared his throat right then, Fenris might have very well let his body do whatever it wanted. He’d have had Hawke’s hair unbound, his fingers tangled, and he’d have swallowed that smile of hers _whole._

It was all he could think about for the rest of the day.

✷

They spent more time training that day than usual, rationalising that they could very well be engaged in a real fight that night, and Hawke needed to get a feel for her new staff.

The power of this new weapon was evident within moments.

If Hawke had still been using the explosive spells of her usual arsenal, the Main Hall might have been reduced to rubble. Fortunately, she had been developing abilities which required singular focus, so as to prevent Fenris from being caught in any crossfire or backlash. As a result, the only victim of her staff trial was the pile of garbage. She mastered the weapon quickly, which both unsettled and reassured, for whilst it meant that her magic was great, it also meant that her will was great enough to keep it under control.

So absorbed in their training, it was not until they had stopped to begin their cleaning that they realised the noise coming from outside. It was raining heavily, the sound like a marching army now that they were aware. As they worked, they both fervently hoped that the rain would cease before the evening, but it only grew heavier by the hour. Night fell and still no luck. They would be fighting in the wet.

Armored and equipped, the sash hanging between them (they’d agreed that being mocked was preferable to accidentally gutting each other), they ventured out into the city. Only a few breaths had passed before they were both looking like drowned vermin.

It was fortunate that they knew Kirkwall so intimately, for they could hardly see through the sheets of rain. It was an unrelenting roar, and conversation had to be done in shouts. Each staircase was descended with care, for water flowed down the steps in streams which tried to drive their feet, and solid ground was hardly better, the stone as slick as sleet.

“Don’t forget to test the slack before you charge!” Hawke yelled through the curtain of rain, the docks approaching, “Sometimes you get a bit too close to the limit!”

They’d spent most of the walk bellowing tips and reminders to each other. Hawke’s hair was stuck to her face and neck, dampened to the colour of dark caramel. Great rills ran down her skin, slipping into her mouth as she spoke. Fenris was being drenched just as thoroughly, and privately revelled in the coolness washing over his lyrium.

“Faith, Hawke!” he called back good-naturedly, adrenaline already threading through his system, “And remember, no–”

“No fire!” she laughed with a great billow of mist, “I’ve got it!”

Isabela and Anders were waiting at the base of the Dock steps, though they looked nothing more than streaks of colour until Fenris and Hawke were standing right in front of them. They had been just as crushed with water.

“Yo Ho!” Isabela cried cheerily by way of greeting, swiping at a lock of hair that had plastered to her cheek. The pirate queen was certainly no stranger to storms.

“Where the Void did this weather come from?” Hawke laughed loudly, blinking up into the sky. So close to the sea now, the rain was near deafening. It gushed down onto the ocean with the sound of a million falling pebbles.

The abomination appeared positively haggard in that coat of his, the feathers drooped and dripping, the quilted cloth sagging like a giant sponge. “You look bloody freezing!” he called to Hawke, eyes wide.

“That’s because I am!” and she tucked her arms in tight, “My hands are already numb!”

The abomination wasn’t wrong, now that Fenris paid attention. Her skin was no longer just pale, but washed out, her lips nearly the same colour. It was those accursed robes. The thick material was able to absorb a great deal of water, but unlike Anders’ attire, it had no layers, offering no protection at all from the chill.

He felt a frisson of concern, and hoping that he sounded merely irritable, yelled, “Let us work quickly!”

The fence was apparently waiting at the East End of the wharf, where most of the illegal, late-night dealings here happened - when there were no warehouses available, no doubt. They’d taken but a few steps when, from rear guard, Isabela guffawed. “What is _that?_ ”

They peeked over their shoulders to find her pointing at the sash dragging between their bodies. Anders, who had taken point, also tossed a glance at the outcry. With a pursing of lips, the abomination whipped his head back to the front.

Words greatly muffled by the storm, he cried back sarcastically, “Ah, that’s their special _training toy!_ ”

“Oh yeeeah, Aveline did tell me. Very kinky.”

It was hardly the lewdest comment Isabela had ever made, and so it rolled off with the rain. A few more feet though and she was shouting again.

“I don’t remember your staff being so short, Hawke! Or so pretty… wow, I could buy a fleet of dinghies with those wings!”

Having caught her words, Anders came to a halt, which brought them all to a standstill. He stepped towards them, intrigued. “What it she... wait, that _is_ new....”

He made to walk around to Hawke’s back, but anticipating this, she simply reached behind and unlatched the staff. Isabela joined Anders in a huddle to inspect the weapon.

“I had it specially made,” she explained, letting Anders take it from her, which, inexplicably, made Fenris’ lip curl, “It’s easier to use with the tether.”

Amidst the whirr of the rain, there was a melodic tinkling as water hit the silver wings and counterweight. They shone brilliantly in the watery light, as did the silver swirling around the pole.

“This is the sweetest little stick.” Isabela traced one of the gleaming lines with her finger and Anders followed the movement with his eyes, a scrunch forming between them. He lifted his gaze to Fenris, made a quick sweep of the elf’s body, and then looked to Hawke.

“These are his markings!” he burst, fantastic, gratifying incredulity all over his face.

Isabela flicked her eyes between Fenris and the weapon and laughed, “Shit, you’re right!

“You know what, forget I said anything,” Anders sighed, the sound nearly lost in the din, and handed the staff back to Hawke, “I’m not even going to ask.”

It was a rare display of intelligence. In fact, so far this evening, the man had seemed more _restrained_ in general. Very unusual.

Instead of taking rear guard like she should have, Isabela joined Anders at front, with whom she jovially linked arms and chattered away – oddly enough, the only word Fenris had been able to make out from their conversation sounded suspiciously like ‘kitten’.

They walked the pier, and the closer they got to the end, the more the rain became a hindrance. Their approach would be obscured, but as would any enemies waiting. The velvet sash was heavy around Fenris' waist, something he only really became aware of as they grew close to the site. He hoped it would only improve their sense of awareness, not weigh them down.

At the threshold of the dead end, they were finally able to make out figures. Just as Isabela had predicted, the Coterie knew all about the fence.

They backtracked a few steps, intending to plan their entrance. Pressing to the stone wall of the closest warehouse, they huddled their heads in order to formulate a plan. The Coterie were not entirely closed to negotiation, so if they–

“ _GUT THE UPSTART!_ ”

Isabela’s annoyed _“Bugger”_ was met with grumbled agreement. Fenris, who was eager for a battle, was not quite as annoyed.

There was a man’s squeal of alarm (the “upstart” fence, obviously), a scattering of battle cries, and then the fight well and truly descended. That was their cue.

With a wicked cackle, Isabela flew to engage a pair to the right, daggers unsheathed with a festive spin. The crash of the rain was now met with the clang of steel, with the roars of combat. Already they could see red in the water.

Anders stayed at the threshold of the narrow pier, fire crackling in his palm whilst, without any necessary discussion, Hawke and Fenris positioned themselves right in the centre of the field. They were back to back, surrounded by a whirl of chaos. It blurred around them, the cries and this mad hacking and spilling of life – and it was nothing. Hawke at his back, the velvet sash pulling at their waists, weapons poised – they _knew_ this.

It didn’t take long for the enemies to hone in.

A pair of blustering axemen rushed Fenris. Their weapons were raised high to chop, and as he swept his sword across, cutting through elbows and throats in one sleek move, from behind he heard the hideous _crunch_ as some poor fool was crushed by Hawke’s new prison spell.

The blood had hardly hit the ground before Fenris had been targeted again, this time by a group of four. They were advancing quickly, all with swords and sturdy-looking shields. Realising his disadvantage, he took a wide side-step and called, “ _Assist!_ ”

There was an immediate “ _On it!_ ”, a sizzle of ozone as Hawke finished up her latest spell, and then she pivoted directly into the space he’d just emptied.

The men had slowed their pace and crouched into defensive stances, keeping just out of reach of Fenris’ blade, which had already been washed clean by the rain.

“My, they’re a bit shy!” Hawke laughed at the small horde, “How about I bring them nice and close?”

There was a violent pull in the air, rain and wind sucking inward to collect at the staff now raised in Hawke’s hands. With a rough “ _Ha!_ ” she slammed the weapon into the ground, and with the sound of water swirling down a drainpipe, the shield men were lurched off their feet and pulled to the centre of the magic. They bellowed and grunted, their weapons clattering away. Before they could even still however, they were being ended.

There was a rush of cold at his side as Hawke froze two of the men sprawled before her, and Fenris made short work of the remainders, stabbing his sword through the torso of one, whilst he used his foot to crack the neck of the other. Stamped and snuffed like ants at a picnic.

They moved away from the bodies to an area that was free of such obstacles. When they stopped, Hawke was no longer at his side but at his front, eyes scanning the battlefield over his shoulder.

“Isabela could use some help!” she announced, still struggling to be heard over the storm. He nodded and was just about to turn, when Hawke’s eyes widened and she yelled, “ _Left!_ ”

With a zing of adrenaline and not a moment of hesitation, he darted to the left, feeling the air ripple as her spirit bolt was instantly thrown at the place he’d previously been occupying. There was a pained curse and the telling sound of an enemy body hitting the ground.

The battle was relentless, with no time for but the barest snatches of breath. Now was no exception, for just as Fenris had found his footing, there was a sinister puff of smoke at Hawke’s back. Fear bit into him, making his voice rough and tight as he roared, “ _Stealth attack!_ ”

With a gasp and a widening of eyes that made his heart freeze, Hawke instantly spun on the spot, both hands white-tight around her weapon. Like twin stars breaking through cloud, the points of two daggers emerged from the black smoke, intending to rip down into an unsuspecting back. Instead, the rogue’s forearms were blockaded by Hawke’s staff, which she had thrown up sideways like a bar.

The dagger tips were still dangerously close to Hawke’s face though, and she made a distressed, whimpering sound as the assailant continued to snarl and fight against the barrier of her staff.

“ _Move now!_ ” Fenris cried, rage and fear bubbling through his body. With a frightened inhale, Hawke did exactly as bid. She toppled to the side, tripping to the ground. The rogue stumbled forward, and in that moment of vulnerability, Fenris charged forward and ran the bastard through.

With a satisfying squelch of tissue, he tugged the sword free and watched the rogue collapse dead. Hawke was already up, a weary smile on her ashen face.

“Are you alright?” he demanded, stepping far closer than usual and checking for injury. Surrounded by battle or not, he would know _now._

“Y-yes,” she answered, and he wasn’t sure if it was fear or cold that had put the waver in her voice, “Come on, Isabela’s being swamped!”

It was true, there was no time to dally.

Careful not to trip over the weighty sash, they sprinted across the battlefield, knocking and blasting enemies aside like brush in the wilderness. Far to the right, fire swallowed up the rain as it billowed from Anders’ hand, his own combatants screeching and shielding their blistering faces. The abomination would be fine for now, but Isabela, however, had her back against a wall, a perfect queue of men marching straight at her.

Before the men could break their convenient formation, Hawke called, “Isabela! Duck and roll!”

The stab of cold was warning enough for Fenris, and he positioned himself directly behind the mage. They were still running when Hawke cast; a cloud of sleet and snow erupting from her hand, snap-freezing the last man in the file.

The others were too slow to react.

Hawke and Fenris ran alongside the line of toy soldiers, she casting the cold sideways as she went, freezing the enemies one by one, and he still at her rear, sword flung out to the side and slicing through the ice-flesh like he was cutting daisies. The frozen men crumbled with a rhythmic _smash, smash, smash_ , and when he and Hawke reached the end of the line, they found Isabela hunched to the ground at the side, a broad grin on her face.

“Took you long enough!”

Returning the grin, Hawke hauled the rogue to her feet. “Yeah yeah, get moving, Anders needs back-up!”

With a wild “ _On my way, Sparkles!_ ” Isabela was flying back into the action.

The enemies were dwindling but still coming hard.

Hawke and Fenris, back in open ground, were a force. Back to back, they beat off enemies from all sides. They were so _aware_ of each other, the sash having little to no part in that. The woman would cry a simple command, and he would _know_ what she meant, would know that he was safe to comply because his partner was just as aware of _him._

A simple word like “ _swing!_ ” and he would spin on the spot with his sword stretched out, swiping the air in one huge, dangerous arc to cut through an enemy at his back, and Hawke would already be safely crouched low on the ground, watching his blade fly just overhead.

Or Fenris would yell “ _archers!_ ” and he and Hawke would switch positions as smoothly as clockwork, allowing the mage to bring down the line of bowmen with a single, ranged whip of magic whilst he watched her flank.

They were wild smiles and pure lethality.

When the final blow was done, and the battlefield was but a mire of blood and water and tissue, Fenris felt like his body would never stop soaring.

He and Hawke spun to face each other simultaneously, she laughing excitedly, he grinning without restraint.

 _Grinning._

Though the rain was still pounding, their voices managed to reach impressive volume in their giddiness. They spouted nonsense, their words coming out fast and random, both of them too caught up in the moment to think straight.

The highlight of the exchange was, perhaps, when Hawke proclaimed herself the "Pivoting Queen".

“I thought that mace guy had me!” she continued, water flying about as she gestured, “But you were all _whoosh_ and _bam!_ ”

“Agreed. I thought he… wait, whoosh and what?”

“We didn’t even need…” she finally stopped talking, something on the ground having caught her attention, and then let out a burst of hysterical laughter, “ _Look!_ ”

Coiled on the puddled ground were two separate lengths of sash, hanging down from each of their waists. The material had been cut down the centre at some unrealised moment during the battle.

They really _hadn’t_ needed it.

He laughed as well, adrenaline making the sound shaky. They smiled at each other for a long moment, battle high thrumming through their bodies.

He’d never had a fighting partner before, and he’d certainly never expected to find one in a mage. But this thrill wasn’t about magic or the strength of his swing or their muscles or speed – it was about how unwaveringly they had trusted one another.

Their companions jogged to meet them, and the blissful moment was interrupted.

“I’m just going to come out and say it!” Isabela called over the rain, sheathing her daggers, “You guys are shit scary!”

Fenris felt a swell of pride. Hawke grinned and called back, “You should have seen our _first_ battle together!”

“We should get out of the rain,” Anders said, nothing to offer about the battle or Isabela's comment. He appeared slightly displeased, but it seemed that this new-found muzzle of his was continuing to hold.

They all agreed, and after a scour of the dead fence’s pockets (which, unsurprisingly, possessed nothing of relic-related significance) set off. Though the storm made conversation difficult, they certainly gave it a shot. Hawke was the most vocal of the group, hands flying about, eyes glittering with post-battle glee. Fenris was happy to simply watch.

Which he did so avidly.

Once back at the manor, they gathered their nightclothes and headed straight to the bathroom, their uninterrupted banter echoing loudly through the halls. Water trailed wherever they walked, Hawke’s robes leaving the worst of it.

She was _saturated._

Both hair and robes were sagging with water, the latter dragging across the floor with a squelching sound. Outside of battle, in the chill of the manor, she had also grown very cold very fast, her teeth chattering badly enough to make Fenris wince. Her state was concerning, and he adamantly insisted that she have a longer bath than normal.

Clean, dry and exhausted, they had barely enough energy left to gobble a quick supper before their bodies began to fail. They talked for a while longer, even as they lay there intending to sleep. It had been an incredible evening and neither was particularly eager to bring it to a close. They relived the finer moments of the tussle over and over, and Hawke, who was wrapped up in her quilt, still insisted on talking with her hands, even though all Fenris could see of the gestures was how they moved the blanket. Their battle harmony was as thrilling to her as it was to him, which only made this experience all the sweeter.

It took a long while for their excitement to simmer down, but their weariness did eventually win out. He wasn’t sure how long they’d spent speaking, or what time it was when they fell into slumber, and later, Fenris would not be able recall saying goodnight.

Which could only mean that they had managed to talk each other to sleep.

✷


	27. Chapter 27

It was very out of the ordinary for Fenris to wake before morning light, but something had roused him. It was still black, with just the hint of moonlight slipping through the windows, which meant that dawn was still a couple of hours away. The rain had stopped. Eyes prickling with tiredness, he frowned, unable to make sense of this pit in his gut.

The fire was long dead, but he felt a tad warmer than was usual. Propping up on one elbow, he tried to think through the sludge in his brain and find the source of his discomfit. It didn’t take long. Hawke had rolled very close to him during the night, leaving but a foot between them; it was not something she’d done before.

She was shivering.

There was a nasty surge in his stomach and he sat up proper. Even in the waning moonlight he could see the pallor of her skin. Carefully, he slid his hand underneath her sweat-dampened fringe.

She was _burning._

“ _Futos!_ ” he hissed, panic swelling as he gently shook the woman’s shoulder, “Hawke!”

She only moaned, and a more unsettling sound he'd never heard.

“Hawke!” he called now, volume rising with his distress, “H– _Artemis!_ ”

Even using her proper name did nothing. She refused to stir.

_That damn rain._

Eyes darting around the room in an irrational search for solutions, Fenris kept his hand on her shoulder, frightened to lose contact. She couldn’t stay here, he finally reasoned. She needed a proper bed and he needed help.

He whipped her blanket free, tossing it to the side. The deep shudder which racked Hawke’s body made his chest hurt, but keeping her bundled up would only have made the sickness worse.

 _It was only a fever_ , he tried to tell himself.

But it _wasn’t_ only a fever. It was shivering and pain and paleness and it was _Hawke_. It could get worse; it could already _be_ worse.

Swatting away the tendrils of panic, Fenris rose and armored as fast as possible, though he decided against wearing his gauntlets. With as much care as he could muster, he slipped both arms underneath the shaking mage and gathered her up. She was light as leaves, even with her heavy housecoat, and with a gut-wrenching whimper, she curled in instantly. Now was not the time to revel in her closeness, even though his body rippled wonderfully. It was a terrible man who could be excited by her scent at a time like this, or by the little hands unconsciously trying to find him.

Ashamed at himself, but clutching Hawke tighter still, Fenris whisked out of the manor. His battle grace kept him from jostling the woman too much, which was a small mercy.

This was not just fear he felt. This was _terror_. He’d never been faced with something like this before. And to see Hawke so weak, too weak to even wake… Too late he wished that thought had never crossed his mind, for it inevitably led to another–

_What if Hawke didn’t wake?_

Teeth grit against the sudden, awful constriction in his throat, he sprinted the last few steps to her estate. Shuffling Hawke’s weight onto one arm and a propped knee, Fenris banged his free fist against the door. He banged and banged and banged, not stopping until he heard the distinct sound of feet.

“It’s us!” Fenris called, hoping to nullify any apprehension the staff might have about opening the door. The footsteps became hastier. He readjusted to cradle Hawke properly, the jerky movement making her moan and loll her head.

If only he could make this _stop._

A clink of keys and the door was pulled open, Bodahn on the other side with a lamp in his hand. He was dressed in a nightshirt, hair ruffled from sleep.

“Messeres!” he gasped, darting out of the way, “What happened?”

Fenris flew inside, trusting the dwarf to follow him to Hawke’s bedchamber.

“She has caught a chill,” he said, startled by the roughness of his voice, and watching the woman’s pinched face, “I need to bring her fever down.”

As soon as they were inside the bedchamber, Bodahn, ever vigilant and dutiful, pulled the bedcovers aside without needing command, and then took off to arrange a basin.

Fenris lowered his bundle onto the bed, insides a twisted mess as he finally looked upon her properly. The oil lamp Bodahn had left behind filled the room with flickering shadow and cast Hawke’s face into sharp relief. The circles under her eyes were deepened, her cheeks dark like they were bruised.

It hurt to see her like this.

Too worried to be embarrassed, he untied her housecoat. Even when he moved her arms and back to remove it, she did not rouse. Such a light sleeper and she simply would not wake. He stood there over her quivering body, clutching the housecoat like a lifeline – it _smelled_ of her – and he just wanted to shake her, demand that she open those eyes.

Bodahn returned with a basin of water, some wash cloths over one arm and a set of male nightclothes over the other.

“Shall I light the fire, Messere?” the dwarf asked as he set the basin by the lamp, anxiety lining his face.

“No,” Fenris rasped, eyes still firmly fixed to the sleeping woman.

Bodahn wrung his hands. “Is there anything else I can do?”

“No, I will be fine from here.” He just wanted to be left alone, but still managed to add, “Thank you.”

After pulling a handbell from his pocket and leaving it on the nightstand, the dwarf departed, closing the door behind. Fenris’ shoulders sagged the second the latch sounded, the coat tossed to the floor. He removed his sword, leaned it on the wall and then perched on the edge of the bed.

He allowed only a handful of seconds to worry over her face before slapping himself to act.

“You will be fine by morning,” he muttered determinedly whilst he wet a swath of cloth in the basin, “This is nothing to you.”

With a movement that was too lingering to be clinical, he swept her thick fringe out of the way and laid the cloth upon her brow. Hawke sucked in a distressed breath and he nearly whipped the cloth away. Good sense had not completely abandoned him however, and though it made him feel ill to add to her discomfort, he knew this was necessary.

Wanting to do more than wet her forehead, he slid up the sleeves of her nightgown so that they bunched at the shoulders.

Five years, and he’d ever seen her arms bare before.

The skin was not right, grey-tinged and beaded with sweat, but there was still beauty to behold. The limbs seemed longer without the bulky robes obscuring everything. They were also slim, but with delicate musculature. Arms that were elegant without being weak.

Mouth dry, he skimmed his fingers down her upper arm. The skin was smoother than water, the rasp of his calluses audible in the silent room.

Then he realised what he was doing. And worse still, what he _should_ have been doing.

Self-deprecating curses marching through his head, Fenris stopped fondling the unconscious mage and continued with his task. They were just arms. Trying to stay detached, he ran a second damp cloth up and down their length. The coolness had Hawke objecting again, her head drooping to the side in misery.

“I am sorry,” he whispered earnestly, “This needs to be done.”

Though tiredness dragged at his bones and eyes, he repeated his task over and over. Soft, so as not to chafe her skin, he ran the cloth up and down her arms, wetting it again as soon as it became too dry for his liking.

It might have been one hour or five that he sat there doing this.

The sky grew impossibly dark beyond the curtains, hinting that dawn wasn’t far. Hawke’s breathing had calmed, even if it was still a bit shallow, and her brow was not quite so furrowed. The basin was empty now and the tether prevented him from retrieving more water. He could ring for Bodahn, but he was reluctant to wake the dwarf again.

Time had allowed his nerves to settle, and Fenris reluctantly reasoned that Hawke would be alright until morning proper. Flicking the cloth into the basin, he sighed and watched her drawn face.

Horribly fevered and she was still so lovely.

His reaction tonight had been stronger than he would have anticipated. That he… cared for her… was something he’d already realised, but it was only now that he was enlightened to what those words actually meant.

It meant just this.

It meant fear and irrationality, awe and want. And it meant feeling these things even after he’d seen the worst of a person.

He still didn’t know what to _do_ about the feelings, but for now, he was content to just be here.

With another sigh, he rose and changed out of his armor. He opted only to wear the pants Bodahn had brought, having grown accustomed to sleeping without a shirt again. He would sleep with his back propped against the bed, just in case Hawke rolled in her sleep and broke range.

Just as he’d grown as comfortable as possible (which wasn’t saying much), a tiny, croaking, wonderful voice met his ears.

“Fenris?”

Fast enough to make his sleep-deprived head spin, he whipped around. Hawke was still on her back, but her head had lolled to face him, eyes half-lidded and glassy.

Grace drowned in a deluge of relief, Fenris scrambled to sit on the edge of the mattress once more. Perhaps he had spent too much time running the cloth over her arms, for it felt far too natural when he reached out and thumbed both her cheeks.

“You’re awake.” The words came out thick and coarse, and he didn’t even care that Hawke would hear, that she would question the hands on her face once well enough. A smile tugged at her lips, and it was the most glorious thing he’d ever seen. _She would be ok._

“My bed?” she asked in a hush, eyes closing. She tilted into one of his hands, the small action wrapping around his heart.

“Yes.”

“Hmm,” she was still not entirely aware, “Sleep here.”

“I am, just by the bed,” he assured, even though it was common knowledge that he couldn’t possibly move much farther.

Her eyes opened a fraction again, a frown forming between. It was cute ( _that word again_ ), something he could appreciate even now. “In,” she amended seriously.

The air left his lungs in a great gush. His muscles tightened, and he very nearly gripped her face too hard.

“I– I’ll be right here, I swear.”

“Please,” she whimpered, fevered eyes boring into him, “I need you.”

There was the sensation of expanding in his chest, hot and magnificent. His thumbs caressed her cheeks, and _no_ , he had to tell himself, _she’s ill_ , because he wanted to touch her more forcefully, to fill that empty space between them.

There was, of course, no way he could deny her request.

Unable to walk around the bed without breaking range, he shuffled her gently to the other side, his knees braced against the mattress. Then he slid under the single sheet he’d allowed her -

And he was in Hawke’s bed.

She rolled onto her stomach, face turned in his direction, and he shifted to lie on his side so that he might watch her more comfortably. Her sweaty fringe stuck at odd angles, but he stifled the urge to smooth it out. His hand was resting casually in the centre of the bed, and he almost started when Hawke extended her own to rest upon it. Neither of them grasped or moved their fingers at all. It was enough to simply touch.

Within moments her eyes were fluttering closed, and now that Fenris had lain down, he wouldn’t be far behind.

Apparently, he had been successful in getting through to her at least once back in his manor, for before unconsciousness claimed Hawke, she smiled, and managed one last, fevered whisper:

“You said my name.”

✷

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terribly sorry for the long wait! I've been busy doing all kinds of fun (nerdy) holiday stuff :D! I know this chapter is short, but there won't be as long of a wait until the next one.


	28. Chapter 28

For the first time in a long while, Fenris woke before Hawke. The curtain was open only a sliver, but the sun was bright enough that it illuminated the whole room. It must have been around noon.

Neither of them had moved much during their rest, and so Hawke’s hand still draped across his palm. Both the feel of her skin and the image itself made him tingle. As did the fact that her hand was dry, back to its usual pale, and emitted a perfectly healthy amount of warmth.

As though sensing that he’d woken, Hawke made a soft _murr_ sound and her eyelids began to flicker. Quickly but carefully, he withdrew his hand.

For the first few seconds, Hawke just blinked at him owlishly, eyes bright and vital, no longer fogged with sickness. Assuming that she was only working through some disorientation, Fenris said nothing, and was secretly grateful to be given this opportunity to watch her wake. It was not something he'd done before, and was finding it to be equal parts soothing and exciting. It was like the whole world had stopped while Hawke was sleeping, and he could feel it rising with her.

But then confusion scrunched Hawke's brow and the realisation of what that _meant_ effectively shattered the moment. Fenris' lungs twitched in panic as it became obvious that she didn’t remember the short conversation they'd had last night, the one where she _more_ than gave him permission to sleep in her bed. He couldn’t even turn away, his whole body caught in a cringe. Any moment she would tease or tell him to get out or–

“You have some serious bed hair,” she slurred.

Or tell him he had bed hair.

Ears heating, he glared without any real vitriol and felt around his scalp. He couldn’t see, but he could feel how the locks stuck out of place. He must have moved around more than he thought. Hawke breathed a tired laugh, her eyes drooping again, and she made for a picture of such peace that his glare disappeared like it had never even existed.

“Thank you,” she almost-whispered, the sudden pink staining her cheeks a welcome sight, “For last night, I mean... All of it.”

Betraying none of his relief or pleasure, he nodded, his cheek dragging against the pillow. “You seem well again,” he said in a voice just as quiet, hoping to veil the emotion trickling through.

“I am,” she closed her eyes fully and burrowed into her pillow, “but I still don’t want to get out of this bed.”

That was a sentiment they both shared, though with different motivations no doubt. Waking up next to Hawke in a bed was very different than waking up next to her on his manor floor. They were forced to lie close here, and there was an intimacy to sharing a sheet, to having matching pillows, to feeling everything shift when the other person moved even just a little. The linens smelt of her too, and Fenris had to wonder if that was part of why he had slept so well. He liked being connected to her in this way.

As it turned out, most of the day was actually spent in bed. It was imperative that Hawke not push herself for at least the next twenty-four hours, and as Fenris had absolutely nothing to do but sleep or converse, he just stayed put. It was odd at first, but after spending weeks in each other’s pockets, it did not take long for the feeling to dissipate. The bed just became another Main Hall or hearth rug or study floor. They amused themselves with card games for a long while, then some backgammon, and then several hours of chess - or at least, their version of chess. The board was Bodahn's, and as neither Fenris nor Hawke had ever actually played the game, the rules they followed were almost completely self-constructed. It made for chaos, but the enjoyable variety.

Even once Hawke was cleared to leave, she asked if they could stay in her estate for a few days. Reluctant, but still unsettled by the memory of her sick and unhappy, he agreed. They needed a break from cleaning anyway. So they spent three days there, just resting and relaxing, and the reprieve did them both good, as did the proper food.

When they returned to his manor, they were full of new energy and attacked the last of their cleaning with a vengeance. They made sure to clear the mansion of trash before week’s end (barring the corpses), anticipating the arrival of their companions, who would be helping with the final stages of this long, arduous process. Though not all were thrilled at the idea of giving up their leisure days to clean, they all showed, even the abomination.

Despite the numerous _“I told you so”_ looks Hawke cast Fenris throughout the two days, he would never admit to the merit of her idea. Cleaning happened a lot faster when there were more than two people, and when those people could be more than six feet from each other.

Varric and Aveline were the real champions, though. The dwarf had paid a small group of elves to assist in the task, all of whom had been desperately trying to find work; it was for that reason alone that Fenris didn’t lose his temper at having strangers traipse through his house. Aveline had organised a ladder to be delivered by the chantry so that the walls and ceilings could be cleaned more easily, but better than that, were the guardsmen she’d roped into removing the corpses. It was such an obvious, elegant solution to the ‘body pile problem’ that Fenris and Hawke had actually felt rather stupid.

The chore of actually going up the ladder mostly fell to Merrill, who was as comfortable two storeys up as she was on the ground. Anders had volunteered to spot the blood mage, and he spent much of the time ashen-skinned and grimacing. The elf was perhaps a little _too_ comfortable up high – leaning far off to the side and using only a single hand and foot as anchor, _jumping_ from the rungs to perch on window sills, and often bypassing the rungs completely during her descents, opting to slide down the stiles instead. 

Isabela was mostly useless, but that was no surprise to anyone. Twenty minutes of scrubbing the floor and she’d already complained three times, each gripe growing more vulgar ( _“If I’m on my knees with my tits swaying, there should at least be a bloke involved”_ ). They exiled her to work in the back rooms where they wouldn’t be able to hear her whine.

By Sunday’s end, the manor was done.

There was no more rubbish, the walls and floors were clean, and the bodies were gone. There were still chipped tiles and strips of wallpaper missing (the excess having been torn off), and it was as bare as though no one lived in the place, but it was finally, blessedly clean. Too tired to even _suggest_ a celebratory drink at _The Hanged Man_ , their companions departed soon after finishing – which enabled Hawke and Fenris to bask in peace. They sat in the middle of the Main Hall for a long while, letting the reality wash over. Hawke would occasionally pipe up with a _“remember when”_ and spark a conversation, but they were mostly quiet in their reminiscence. 

It had been a hard job, one Fenris hadn’t even wanted to undertake originally. Now he only wished he’d wised up sooner. 

That was a sentiment which could be applied to more than cleaning the mansion.

The final touches to the manor were made the next day when the furniture arrived. The workhands actually looked disappointed as they carried the goods inside, and Fenris could only suppose that was due to the rumours which existed about his manor; many fools believed it to be haunted, and so the reality must have been quite dull.

He and Hawke fixed everything but the Main Hall rug to a spot, which they kept rolled up to the side of the room so that they would be able to continuing training until the dinner party. Though their last battle had gone superbly, arrogance was seldom a virtue in combat. Just _when_ exactly they would be rolling out that rug was settled at the weekly Wicked Grace game. With the manor cleaning completed, a date for that absurd dinner party could be arranged.

Friday, as the first evening when everyone would be free, was the lucky day chosen.

Upon settling the date, Fenris and Hawke had looked at each other, a charge passing between them. This dinner party was now significant in ways which far surpassed an excuse for dresses or fancy food or expensive wine.

Friday was the night before they would be travelling to Sundermount.

✷

It had been wiser throughout this ordeal to assume the worst – the worst being that Keeper Marethari’s ritual would fail and the tether would hold for an indeterminable period of time. Taking this approach had been the only way to ensure that Fenris and Hawke would work together to make life bearable. So they cleaned, they made his manor fit for more than just a reclusive ex-slave, they trained in combat, commissioned Hawke a new staff… they _prepared._

Except, there had been one, small kink in that plan.

It no longer felt like preparation. It felt like they had built something. 

They’d hardly paid attention to the passing of time, hadn’t kept a calendar or counted down to Sundermount. They had convinced themselves not to have faith in this ritual; after all, it was safer to expect failure.

But it was looming and they could feel it now. 

This could be the end.

It should have had Fenris itchy with anticipation, kept him up at night with excitement. Half of him did feel that way, of course. But it was only one half. 

The other was… disquiet. 

If – when – the tether was broken, when they were no longer forced to be by each other’s side, would everything they had built simply crumble? The thought of everything going back to how it was, to that hate and emptiness and distance... it set a chill in his veins.

He did not want to be bound forever; that was true, no matter this disconcertion. But he could find no reason why someone might stay with him of their own free will.

Where Hawke’s thoughts fell on this matter, he did not know. Sometimes, her gaze would travel somewhere far away, or fall upon Fenris in such a way that would make him think, _I am not alone in these fears_. It was difficult to discern whether his interpretations were based on something real though, or something wanted.

Until the day of the dinner party, they continued to train and talk like nothing was different, and he soaked it in, soaked _her_ in as much as possible. Their routine changed on the actual day, for they were forced to prepare for the dinner. They woke later than normal, anticipating a long night and their trip the following morning, then positioned themselves in the centre of the Main Hall and discussed where to begin.

“I’ve been thinking…” Hawke said, finger to her lips as she eyed the rolled rug still sitting between the two staircases.

“Always a noteworthy event,” he replied smoothly.

“Ouch,” she laughed, swatting his arm playfully, “My ideas are _genius_. Seriously though, hear me out.”

While they stood there, the distant clatter of pots and murmur of conversation could be heard from the East Wing; Hawke’s servants had agreed to prepare tonight’s meal.

“Very well,” Fenris sighed, “apprise me of this newest madness.”

With a coy, sideways look, she said, “You know how we have that dining table on order?”

“Mm.”

“How would you feel about ditching it?”

With enough speed to risk a wrench, he turned his head to study her expression properly, which was nothing but earnest. “What are you talking about?” 

“Well,” her mouth went crooked, something which often happened when she was feeling a tad embarrassed, “this dinner is supposed to be a celebration of our efforts, right? Then I say we have it our way.”

He still didn’t understand, but even as his brow furrowed his mouth was pulling into a smile. “Explain, Hawke.”

“We roll out the rug and eat our meal the same way we’ve eaten most our meals here...” she rocked back on her heels and smirked, “in the middle of the floor.”

During the seconds when his mind was still processing, he simply stared and repeated, “The floor?” 

“I told you it was genius.”

Actually... that wasn't an entirely inappropriate word. 

“You are completely without sense,” he said instead, shaking his head, “The others will not wish to sit on the floor.”

“Do you care?”

“No,” he returned her smirk.

Though Hawke was noble, she was certainly not _a_ noble, for no one who had truly adopted the aristocratic lifestyle would ever even consider such a barbaric plan as setting dinner on the floor. That was Hawke though – a woman who let her spirit take her (and everyone else) wherever it pleased. 

Even if she, quite often, looked like an utter idiot.

Dressing up and playing host was going to be nightmarish, but maybe this small piece of familiarity would make the whole affair seem less fake.

The circular rug they’d chosen was large enough to fill most of the floor. It was a sapphire blue with a border of two golden concentric lines; a very simple design, devoid of any further embroidery beyond. Fenris had already lived in a world of decadence and foppishness; simple was all he wanted now.

It was incredible how much _nicer_ the Main Hall looked already. Many of the missing tiles had been covered by the rug, and its colour was so bold that it drew attention away from the other flaws in the room.

They’d brought over some brass standing candelabra from the Amell vault the previous day, which they now positioned around the room edges. The pieces were all tarnished and some of the branches had been snapped off, but that rustic, worn look appealed to Fenris – there was beauty in a forgotten thing being chanced new life.

There wasn’t much for them to do beyond those simple preparations. They prepared their packs for tomorrow’s trek and then spent most of their free time talking or checking in with the servants. The sky had just tinged orange when Aveline arrived, arms ladled with two long, flat boxes, one with a recognised dressmaker’s seal, the other bearing the mark of one of Hightown’s most prominent tailors.

“This is nice,” she said with surprise, stepping into the Main Hall, “I half-expected it to look like a trash heap again.”

“Don’t even joke about that,” Hawke shuddered, she and Fenris rising from the centre of the rug where they’d been sitting, “I suppose these are our _clothes?_ ”

The question sounded like an accusation. She, like Fenris, still hadn’t warmed to the idea of primping for this non-occasion. 

“Yes, and I think you’ll both be pleasantly surprised,” she dumped the boxes in his arms, “If you can stop pouting like children for long enough to actually get dressed, that is.”

“ _Har de har_ ,” Hawke responded sarcastically, “Did you heed our requests?”

With a long-suffering sigh and a pinch of her nose, Aveline said, “ _Yes_ , Hawke. No petticoats, ruffles, feathers, or, as you put it, ‘general puffiness’.”

Ultimately, it was still a woman who had chosen Fenris’ clothing, and he was not at all reassured. The absence of _puffiness_ did not automatically equate to _wearable_. His scepticism must have been showing, for the Guard-Captain gave him a withering look. “Don’t worry, Fenris, I had Varric help me with yours.”

“Superb,” he drawled, face turning sour, “Then I may look forward to dressing like an oily merchant prince.”

To his further irritation, Hawke grinned. “I happen to like Varric’s look! Though, you might need to borrow some of his chest hair.”

“Maker, I’m going before this gets worse,” Aveline groused, “Just shut up and wear the clothes. I’ll see you both after the bell.”

With a brusque wave over the shoulder, the Captain went on her way. As the sun was currently setting, they really didn’t have much time to dally.

Dumping the boxes in the bedchamber, they gathered their washing materials and set off for quick but thorough baths. Averse as she was to wearing a gown, there was an excited waver in Hawke’s voice during their bathroom conversation; the prospect of a fine a meal with her friends was enough to distract her for the time-being.

Once clean though, there was nothing to do but face the inevitable.

They stood in the bedchamber, staring at the two boxes sitting on the table with varying expressions of distaste. Hawke was mostly anxious, whilst Fenris was leaning towards repulsed.

They hadn’t even _opened_ the boxes yet.

With a dramatic sigh, she swooped up her burden, prompting him to do the same. “Let’s just put the blighters on,” she sulked.

A new mahogany privacy screen split the area where the bed had once been, and they each took a side. Placing the box on a small dress stand, Fenris glared at it for a long moment. By the distinct lack of sound coming from the other side of the screen, it was probable that Hawke was doing something similar.

Resigned to his fate, he removed the lid and tossed it aside...

Hmm.

He narrowed his eyes at the ensemble, a finger flicking up the topmost folds to briefly inspect that which lay below.

Clever dwarf.

The clothing was not... hideous, exactly. A surprise. 

It was still finery, however, and nothing was ever going to make him feel truly comfortable wearing such. Feeling only slightly less a fool, he undressed completely, vaguely aware of the rustles and muttering coming from the other side of the screen - Hawke had a tendency to talk to herself when stressed.

The ensemble was all black, which had been a happy surprise. For all of Varric’s colour, he was obviously not blind to the tastes and preferences of others. Fenris only hoped that Aveline had been so astute when shopping for Hawke.

First he stepped into the trousers, which were just a bit tighter than those he wore around the house; tight enough to not require a belt, and tight enough to keep from irritating his markings too much. The shirt was very formfitting, the warning of ‘ _no puffiness_ ’ having been taken to heart. The cuffs and sleeves were comfortably snug, and the collar was higher than that of his armor, leaving only a small rectangle of throat on display. The accompanying vest, too, was black, the only splash of colour provided by the three brass buttons which ran down the right side, clasping the material together.

Simple. Elegant. It was, at the very least, not the worst thing he’d ever worn. 

Soft leather boots had been provided as well, but he ignored those. If he didn’t wear shoes for mountain hikes, he certainly was not going to wear them for a dinner party in his own house. The small act of defiance made him feel better, like he hadn’t completely succumbed to the outfit’s appeal. 

He’d just opened his mouth to announce that he was dressed, when there was a distressed outburst from the other side of the screen.

“ _No. No no no_.”

Not the best sign. He had been afraid that something like this might happen.

Unhappily leashing the instinct to rush over, he stayed on his side of the screen and asked tensely, “Hawke, are you alright? Are you... decent?”

“ _No!_ ” she cried, a hitch in her voice, “Don’t come around!”

That was a plea, not an answer. 

“Hawke, what’s wrong?” he asked, already knowing.

He wished he wasn’t talking at a wooden screen. For a moment, all he could hear was a rattled breath.

“It’s the dress,” she admitted weakly, and he could hear how dearly she didn't want to speak about the matter, “I… can’t wear this.”

“Why?” he pressed, stepping closer to the divider.

Her voice became so small that his chest ached. “I’m embarrassed. It’s too… I just can’t. I’m taking it off.”

“Wait!” he blurted, feeling a ridiculous surge of panic at the idea, “You are wearing it now then?”

“Fenris, don’t!”

“I’m coming around,” he announced, driven by something other than his mind.

He’d always suspected that Hawke was secretly self-conscious, and so he had no illusions that there was anything wrong with the dress. Damn it if he was going to accept her insecurity lying down. The woman should have been above this doubt.

Ignoring the splutter of protests, Fenris skirted around the screen.

“ _Fenris!_ ” she exclaimed angrily, before he'd even fully emerged on the other side, “I _told_ you... not... um...”

_Celestiem clemei._

It was possible his mouth was open. It was possible that Hawke was still ranting. He wasn’t entirely sure that he cared. Awareness beyond the vision in front of him had all but abandoned Fenris.

Clearly, when Hawke had looked in the mirror, she had not seen the same woman that Fenris was currently seeing.

The entire dress was silken, shifting and fluttering like Hawke was something from a dream. Its colour was a deep green, darker than emerald, and a stark contrast to her snowy skin and golden hair, the latter of which was, unfortunately, still pulled into the barrette.

Flowing to as low as mid-calf, were sleeves of thinner, opaque silk. They lacked an inner seam, merely curtaining those milky arms instead of encasing them. The gown draped across from the outer most point of one collar bone to the other, leaving only Hawke’s long, graceful neck bare and a sliver of the skin surrounding – hardly scandalous, and yet Fenris' heartbeat had very quickly turned into a drumroll. Just as maddening was the way the gauzy material teased softly over the curves of her chest and down her stomach; everything strongly hinted but never truly revealed. 

The silk pulled to the side of Hawke's waist and gathered at a round, copper brooch, and from there, the skirt floated over a flare of hips so exquisite, so unexpectedly _impressive_ , that Fenris feared what the memory of this sight might do to his sanity. The waterfall of fabric ended in a puddle around Hawke's feet, the whole thing rippling with the slightest movement. 

It was only when Fenris felt a vague burn in his chest that he realised he hadn’t been breathing. 

Hawke was a _masterpiece_. Fluid and soft, colour and life – like nothing he’d ever seen.

The image was overwhelming.

He had never wanted to touch something, to _have_ something so badly in his entire, remembered existence.

“F-Fenris?” Her hesitant, breathy voice drew his gaze away from the trail of her body. Pink dappled her cheeks, her eyes bright and wide.

“Is it– is it… ok?” She crossed her arms defensively, the long drapes that were her sleeves staying to hang by her sides. She'd never looked so insecure.

Her eyes had been carefully downcast as she spoke, but he noticed when they surreptitiously flickered upward... though not to see his face. They, instead, chanced a path down his torso, his legs.. and the blush deepened.

There was no way to rationalise around it – she liked what _she_ saw.

He focussed on Hawke’s anxiety, trying to push back the flood of male pride that was threatening to drown his thoughts.

In a voice which sounded far too hoarse to be casual, he said, “I see nothing wrong.”

It was not what he wanted to say, but that was usually the way of things.

There was a flash of something across Hawke’s face – disappointment, he realised with an internal start. Had she been hoping for a different response?

Even knowing that nothing would come out, Fenris opened his mouth again. But it was too late, Hawke had already blinked back her emotions. Lifting herself taller, that mask of ease fell back into place, even if her shoulders remained tense and her arms remained crossed.

“You look… very handsome,” she said with a shy smile, lifting her skirts, “I think you’ll upstage everybody.”

His ego thrummed magnificently. 

Sometimes, he still wasn’t sure if Hawke truly meant these things she said, or if she was just driven by pity over his scarred flesh. But she had never been insincere about anything else. It was entirely possible that the strange woman truly _did_ find him attractive, and even thinking so dragged a hefty amount of his blood downward.

Of course, her comment was not entirely correct.

No one would be upstaging Hawke tonight.

✷

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO. SORRY. *Throws self at the mercy of her readers*. I swear I had every intention of updating way sooner, but I've been unable to access my fic all week. I kept getting an error message whenever I tried. I am soooooooo sorry for the delay!


	29. Chapter 29

They set the “table” – seven place-settings in a circle in the centre of the rug – and with a single wave of an arm that had her sleeve flying like a dancer’s ribbon, Hawke lit all the candles about the room. It was fortunate that they did not need to light them individually, for Fenris did not trust himself with something as dangerous as flame right now – he could _not_ stop looking at Hawke. If only she would wear her hair down, though.

They’d just begun twiddling their thumbs when there was a knock at the door.

A moment to stare at each other with varying levels and shades of anxiety, and then the door was swinging open and the first of their companions were letting themselves inside. Varric, looking like an Orlesian poet in a white, ruffled fencer’s shirt, led the way, the blood mage and abomination trailing behind and chattering animatedly. 

Then the talking stilted, there was a girlish squeal which bounced piercingly against the stone walls, and Merrill was knocking Varric out of the way to run to Hawke.

“You look _amazing_ ,” she exclaimed breathlessly, eyes as big and green as lily pads, hands grasping Hawke’s, “I’ve never seen you look so pretty! Of course, you’re always pretty, but now you’re _extra_ pretty… and _swishy!_ ”

Hawke’s face had reddened noticeably in those few short seconds. Her sleeves floated about as the elf shook her arms excitedly. 

“Um, thanks, I think. You look lovely as well, Merrill.”

“Aveline helped me pick the dress,” she released Hawke’s hands and did a merry spin, her violet skirts and velvet-covered arms flinging about, “Isabela said she was going to take me shopping, but I think Aveline really wanted to do it, because she got quite cross at the idea.”

Whilst Merrill was busy fiddling with the small, white bow at her bodice (perfectly matched to the one in her surprisingly un-braided hair), Hawke palmed a cheek and shook her head, as if to say, _“Honestly.”_

Anders chuckled, and said quietly, “I think we’re all grateful for Aveline’s interference.” Then, with a soft, but _non_ -obsessive smile, he added, “You really do look amazing.”

Still, non-obsessed smile or not, the abomination was here, in Fenris’ house, telling Hawke that he appreciated her appearance. That was reason enough to continue hating the mage.

“Then we’re all in agreement,” Varric sauntered over to Hawke and held out his hand, and though she rolled her eyes, she good-naturedly offered her own and allowed the dwarf to kiss it, “Hawke, you are never to wear robes ever again… You look good too, elf.”

“Oh, he does, doesn’t he?” Merrill agreed, and Fenris didn’t know whether to scowl or blush, “You’re very dashing without all those spikes, Fenris.”

“I don’t know,” Hawke interjected, her head cocking at him, “I’ve always thought there was something dashing about the spikes.”

The comment produced within him the insane urge to throw his spiky armor on _this instant._

He quickly turned away, most definitely blushing now.

“Hawke… are we eating on the floor?” Anders - dressed in a darker, but no-less-ridiculous set of robes - asked, the first to notice the unorthodox dinner setting.

“That we are,” she announced, gesturing to the plates with a dramatic flourish, “This is how we do it here.”

She sounded so comfortable speaking about this place like she belonged here. Like she belonged here with _him._

“Just like my clan,” Merrill said wistfully, “Though, with fewer candles of course, since we were always camped in a forest or valley – we’d have set the poor trees on fire every time we ate, otherwise.”

The girl's rambling was interrupted as her, and everyone else's, attention was drawn instead to a very familiar pair of voices squabbling just beyond the manor door. The group turned towards the entrance room in preparation.

 _“Stop poking my chest, you slag!”_ one voice barked.

_“I just always thought your breasts would be made of rock.”_

“Charming,” Fenris murmured. 

The door burst open, neither woman taking a breath from their bickering or bothering to spare a glance for their audience.

“Rock!? You mean like your _head?_ ”

“Ooh, nice one, GC.”

“GC? What does that– Guard-Captain?”

“No, Ginger Cun–”

“Hello there!” Hawke interrupted quickly, voice a tad higher than usual.

The newest arrivals stared each other down for another moment before turning smiles on the rest of the room, one congenial, the other wasting no time before stretching into something grossly suggestive. 

Isabela jutted a hip and placed her hand there, the red slip of a dress she wore riding up dangerously high as she did so; her tight, black corset made her hips seem impossibly wider. Even at a dinner party, the woman dressed like a dock wench. 

“My my, there was a body beneath all that frump, Hawke,” she said, infusing her voice with as much sex as possible. Her eyes slid to Fenris... then down Fenris... then up Fenris... “ _Yummy._ I think I’ll skip dinner and eat you both instead.”

Finding no pleasure in being appraised like meat, he snapped, “I would advise you to stop that leering.” 

“Fine, I’ll leer at Hawke.”

“No,” he said without consideration, his gaze narrowing, “You won’t.”

Six sets of eyes honed in on him, and his insides recoiled. The warning had rolled from his mouth with far too much ease.

Hawke’s eyes were felt the strongest, like a merciless beam of heat at his side. In his peripheral - for he dared not turn to meet her gaze directly - he could see her frown, no doubt as she tried to make sense of his small display of possessiveness.

She was not his to protect, after all. 

A bitter thought.

“How _intriguing_ ,” Isabela crooned.

“Whore, just shut your trap,” Aveline, ever loyal, sighed in exasperation, then brushed the moment away and addressed the hosts with a smug smile. “I’m glad to see that the clothes suit you both. Pardon the pun.”

“Never pardon puns, Captain,” Varric interjected sagely.

Hawke relaxed visibly at the change in subject. “Yes yes, you do good work. Happy? I said it.”

“Very,” the Guard-Captain nodded, and watching the movement, it struck Fenris how odd it was to see her without that band across her forehead, her hair pulled into a neat, braided style instead. Though, that oddness was nothing compared to that experienced when noting the hint of freckled bosom displayed by the wide, v-neck of her sky blue gown. 

Never had he thought to find himself contemplating Aveline’s chest. 

After a great deal more bantering (most of which could be attributed to the women cooing over each other’s garments), they all settled on the rug.

The Guard-Captain was the only one who chastised Fenris and Hawke for their decision to forego a table, but once they’d all settled on the rug and the wine and banter was flowing, even she became charmed by the setting. 

The liquor had been supplied by Varric, and though not as good as the _Agreggio_ in the manor’s cellar, it was still good enough that they’d already emptied two bottles before dinner had even been served.

Fenris had never felt so _normal_. The manor was livelier than it had ever been during his stay here; everyone was chattering and drinking whilst they waited for the food, the tinkling of glass and mash of voices snaking their way into the long-empty corners of the mansion.

Much of the conversation was missed by Fenris though, at least that which didn’t involve Hawke. He would _try_ to speak with Aveline at his right, or listen to the anecdotes flying about the circle, but Hawke’s voice was always _right there_ , calling his attention back. It was a losing battle. 

Currently, she was gushing over the blood mage’s necklace – which he only knew, because he’d taken to watching her _again_.

“That pendant is just adorable,” Hawke thumbed the onyx cat cameo hanging from the elf’s velvet choker, “It must have been very expensive.”

“That’s what _I_ said,” Merrill proclaimed.

“You didn’t buy it?”

“It was a gift,” she chirped, dipping her head in an attempt to inspect the pendant herself – with no success of course.

Hawke’s eyebrows disappeared beneath her fringe. “Truly? From whom?”

It was at that moment that Anders coughed loud enough to draw not just the two women, but the entire circle away from their conversations. Somewhere between amused and alarmed, Hawke asked, “You alright there?”

A jaunty smile flicked onto the abomination's face, his cough apparently an anomaly. “Brilliant,” he said easily, “Pass the wine?” 

In the time it took Hawke to do so, all talk of Merrill’s jewellery disappeared to the wind, the discussion nudged towards matters of magic – which made it easy for Fenris to tune out again. The rest of the group resumed their banter as well, but he was hardly listening; Hawke had already mesmerised him back to distraction, just by being there.

Everything she did was hypnotic. The dainty, white bend of her arm whenever she sipped wine would have Fenris remembering the night of her fever, when he’d caressed those limbs with his own hands; the way her tongue would dart out and collect a stray drop from her lip would have his own mouth tingling; every time she laughed, his insides twisted into knots… 

She was dangerously beautiful tonight.

“Intentions, Fenris?”

The question jostled him from his admiring… or obsessing, to be more accurate. It had come from Aveline at his left, and had been asked in a suspiciously low voice. Genuinely confused, he lowered the wine glass he’d been peering over and responded in an aside, “You will have to clarify.”

Back straight, legs folded to the side, she clasped her hands atop one knee and said very calmly, “What are your intentions with Hawke, obviously.”

It was a wonder he didn’t drop the glass. 

“ _Excuse me?_ ” he breathed, eyes darting around the circle to make sure no one had heard.

“I’ve kept my mouth shut until now because I wasn’t sure anything was going on…” she began, and though her voice was mostly reasonable, it possessed that familiar edge, that hidden blade that Fenris had witnessed cut more than one poor man down to size. 

He did not appreciate having it point at him.

Defensive and distinctly mortified, he snapped, “Nothing is going on.”

“Not one of your finest lies.”

“This is none of your business, Aveline.”

“Maybe not, but I’m making it my business,” she said, pretty hair and dress doing nothing to weaken the woman’s commanding presence, “Artemis might not want me shadowing her footsteps anymore, but that girl doesn’t always do right by herself. I’ll do what I can to stop her from getting hurt.”

Fenris had just enough sense to put his glass down before it shattered in his grip. He checked quickly to make sure Hawke was still engaged in conversation, and then hissed, “Just what are you insinuating?”

She sighed, those emerald eyes sympathetic, but no less piercing. “Don’t misunderstand me, Fenris; you’re a good friend and a good man. But good or bad, all men have ghosts, and _yours_ have given Artemis quite a beating these five years. As her friend, I can’t just ignore that.”

She was being honest, not cruel, but there was often little difference.

“I’m only telling you to be absolutely sure of what you’re doing before you take any steps,” Aveline continued, “I like the changes I’ve seen in you these past weeks; the man you’ve become is the kind of man she deserves, so keep it up and we won’t have a problem. I only thought it right that I say something.”

She gave him a long, appraising look, which he returned as blankly as possible so as not to expose how deeply he’d been disturbed. Even if Fenris wanted to respond, the shameful truth of her accusations locked his throat. He was also angry, but that anger was only partially directed at Aveline; the rest was reserved strictly for himself, for being such a blind and captious fool these past five years. 

When it became apparent that he had nothing to say, Aveline nodded in understanding, patted him on the shoulder, and turned to speak with Isabela.

He was left alone with his thoughts, which were not grand company by any means. Mercifully, he wasn’t left alone with this guilt for long.

“Is something wrong, Fenris?” Hawke’s voice, sweet and concerned, broke through his mulling.

Nearly too fast to be casual, he turned to her, to those sincere, mint eyes that were able to make the world disappear. It didn’t seem real that he could have hated her for so long; he couldn’t even _remember_ how it felt to hate her. 

“Yes, of course,” he murmured. 

With an exaggerated tilt of her head, she said in a sing-song, “ _I think you’re lying._ ”

It was impossible not to chuckle. It was, apparently, impossible to be anywhere but right in the present when Hawke was around. 

“That’s better,” she said, and after a parting smile that could make the heavens weep, spun back to her conversation.

Fenris was officially doomed.

✷


	30. Chapter 30

The dinner was magnificent. It was, without question, one of the best Fenris had ever eaten – lamb shanks braised in a ginger and cranberry broth, a sauté of squash slices, spinach and spices, and frozen (courtesy of Hawke’s magic) caramelised fruit pieces for dessert.

The meal done, the plates long cleared, everyone had scattered about the Main Hall to drink or mingle.

Unfazed by the lack of music, Varric and Isabela were currently dancing spiritedly around the Hall. They’d had the most to drink, the latter stumbling and cackling often, especially when she would drunkenly step on the dwarf’s foot, or when Varric would jokingly attempt to dip the pirate.

Perched on the wine crate in one of the corners was Merrill and Aveline, Anders sitting against the wall nearby and chatting with the women, a bottle of wine sitting on the floor between.

Fenris and Hawke had taken residence upon one of the steps of the staircase, and this had been his favourite part of the evening – being able to enjoy her privately, to steal glances at her skin and eyes and hair without fear of scrutiny or _friendly warnings._

“I think Anders has a crush on Merrill,” Hawke said out of the blue, squinting, “I don’t know if that pleases or frightens me.”

“An abomination and a blood mage,” Fenris remarked drily, repellent to the thought, “A union worthy of the Imperium.”

“There have been stranger… maybe…” she slid him a look, noting his raised brow, “No?”

“No.”

A crash and a series of inebriated shushes and giggles drew them away from the conversation. 

Isabela and Varric had just spun into one of the candelabra. Thankfully, the weak flames had extinguished before the candles hit the ground.

Hawke laughed, and he revelled in its music. He would be happy to stay here on this step for the rest of the night. As it had been quite some time since she’d last asked Fenris if they could mingle, he decided to pretend that she felt the same way.

“It’s nice that everyone’s had a good time,” she commented, hands crossed at the wrist over her knees as she leaned forward to watch the group.

The wine, or maybe the atmosphere, made him feel marginally bolder than normal, and he asked, “Have you enjoyed yourself?”

It didn’t matter to him if this had been the worst evening of their companions’ lives. It didn’t matter if it had been the worst evening of _his_ life (which it hadn’t), all he cared about was that Hawke had received some joy from this pomp.

“Yes, of course,” she said, smiling at him, “Thank you for doing this for me.”

Her smile faltered as she realised her words, a flush racing across her cheeks.

That she had no meant to say it only made Fenris’ heart – which had immediately begun to thud – thud harder. 

“I’m sorry,” she blurted, “That was presumptuous. I know you only did it because of–”

“I did it for you.”

The words burned his throat, but he’d managed to say them. 

Too many times he’d not said what had truly been on his mind and regretted it after. If she already wanted to believe this one, little thing of him, that he’d withstood this foppish evening for her – then, this one, little thing he could admit.

“You…” her eyes expanded, the dying candlelight dancing in their depths, “You did?”

The thick, unhidden hope in her voice made his breath catch. She wanted it to be true. He nodded, the action slow and deliberate and attempting to convey how _emphatically_ he’d done this for her.

It was a heavy moment. Hawke’s mouth was slightly open, as if poised to say something more but unable to produce sound.

Her eyes sank into him, tunnelling through his body and begging his muscles to finally do something, to grab her, to have her… 

But then the first of the candles went out, one of their companions yawned and everyone knew that the night was over.

They were forced to leave the staircase and the moment behind.

✷

Some inebriated but all tired, their guests hugged, chuckled and grunted their farewells and then milled out into the night.

“This was lovely,” Aveline said at the door, a half-passed out Isabela draped around her shoulders, “We should do something like this again soon.”

“Mmm, y’smell li’strawberries,” the pirate slurred, nuzzling into the Guard-Captain’s neck.

“I better just bring this idiot back to mine,” she rolled her eyes, hitching Isabela up as she began to droop, “I’ll see you both tomorrow.”

“Goodbye, Aveline,” Hawke pecked the Captain’s cheek, and then patted Isabela’s head. “Bye you.”

“Byeeee!” the pirate sang as she was guided away. Once Hawke had made sure that Aveline could bear the woman’s weight, she closed the door.

And she and Fenris were alone again.

She didn’t turn around immediately, or even remove her palm from the door. There was still a charge in the air, a revelation hanging. But Hawke, as she always did, stamped the tension down. That hand dropped from the door and she spun around, already with a falsely – _infuriatingly_ – casual smile fixed to her face.

“Well, that was exhausting,” she said with nervous cheer, and swept past into the Main Hall, forcing him to follow.

This mask she wore had been so useful in the past. It had given Fenris a way out when his own feelings had threatened to spill, when he’d been so confused about what he wanted that he’d just wished for those moments to pass. Now he _knew_ what he wanted, and that mask needed to come _off_.

Hawke’s arm arced through the air, her sleeve racing along, the candles extinguishing in a synchronised furling of smoke.

In the centre of the floor, she turned to him, dress floating as slowly as though it were underwater. Without the candles, the moon alone illuminated the room, filtering through the roof lantern and casting Hawke into soft, silvery light.

That fake smile weakened at the hard expression she found on Fenris’ face.

At the heat she would now see in his eyes.

She scrambled to right her smile then turned her back on him, making to walk away. “W-well, we should probably–”

There was no plan, there were no words in mind – all Fenris knew was that seeing her walk away from him, shutting him out like that, made everything inside him clench. _He needed to make her stop._

Quicker than thought, he grabbed her wrist.

The contact was a spark at his palm that raced up his arm like lightning. It was pleasure and desperation entwined, and it forced his grip tighter, begged her to _stay_ , to _be here_ with him.

Hawke didn’t speak.

But she did stop. She stilled like she had been expecting this, her head dropping the tiniest, most perplexing inch.

The manor was utterly silent but for Fenris’ shallow breathing. The sound, too clear, mocked, reminded him of all the times he’d let his own reticence win. He mustered the courage to speak, not thinking about the words, just afraid to let the silence consume again.

His voice was ragged like it had never been before. “Don’t… don’t do that.”

Still she kept her back to him and her head bowed, that small hand trembling in his grasp. 

That mask would shatter, or he in its stead.

“Lie to me, Hawke,” he strained, taking the half-step needed to have her back brushing his chest, “Tell me I am the only one who feels something.”

His breath was in her hair, and her heat was seeping into his clothes. The memory of this closeness would kill him if she did not yield, if she forced him away.

“No,” her whisper was barely enough to hear above the shuffle of her dress, “You’re not.”

The confession was felt as a great thrashing in his core. His eyes squeezed shut against the force of it, unable, in that second, to perceive of anything past this smash of emotion. When his eyes opened again, joy and anger and need bruising his insides, he rasped, “Then tell me why you pretend otherwise. Surely, you have… you have seen my struggles.”

The thumb he had over the pulse point of her wrist felt the spike his words had caused. He pressed into it, relishing the intimacy of knowing the exact, frantic beat of Hawke's heart.

“I learned to pretend a long time ago,” her voice was no longer a whisper, too full of conflict to stay so quiet; it was shaky now, clogged, “It was the only way to survive you.”

The allusion was too painful to absorb. He didn’t want to believe what she was suggesting, even as he already knew – as he’d already, on some level, known.

She’d cared for him for a long time.

She'd cared, and every time she’d looked at him, she’d been met with a glare. Every act of warmth, met with coldness or cruelty.

He was truly poison. He was corrosive, disgusting, a sickness, not a being.

“I was scared that I was only imagining your change. That if I told you how I felt–”

Unable to bear the words, his free hand shot up to grip above her elbow; a silent plea for her to stop. 

“Let me fix it,” he choked, releasing her wrist to slide up and clutch above her other elbow. Her breath sucked in unevenly, and he looked down to see a trail of gooseflesh where his hand had been. That her fear had not consumed her entirely calmed away some of his self-loathing, and he softened his hold.

Still, he could feel her tension, her instinct to run – it was an instinct he knew well.

Swallowing down the lump in his throat, Fenris drew closer, his nose in the hair by her ear. 

Now was the time for honesty.

Filled with the scent of cream, pulse jumping without order, he said, low and promising, “There is nothing I want more than to fix this, Artemis.”

He watched anxiously as her head dipped, a quiver running through her entire body. However, that was nothing compared to the panic which lanced him when her arms suddenly pulled free of his grasp. 

But she had only moved to spin around; and her eyes were glimmering with an insistent, powerful hope that healed his wound instantly.

And then she was on him.

Lips like silk and sin were on his own, and her hands were sliding over his cheeks like they never had before, like _no one’s_ had before, the fingers crooking in his hair to find purchase in the locks. She pressed into him hard, enough to seal her flavour to his skin forever.

A second passed, the shock of the collision dissolved, and Fenris was left with only the impossible, agonizing truth – 

Artemis Hawke was kissing him.

A groan roiled up from the depths of his being, and he opened to her, invited her to fill him with her taste and heat. She did so immediately, slipping inside like it was all she had ever wanted, a whimper escaping from her mouth and down into his throat.

This was madness at its finest. So many days of compressed longing turned their mouths frantic, lips and tongue sliding wildly against each other, while unchecked sounds of pleasure were sucked up and swallowed. 

Needing more skin, his hands drifted to cup Hawke’s neck, both thumbs dragging up to support her jaw. One of her hands disappeared from his hair, and he instinctively disapproved, the loss of her touch prompting an irritated growl. But... then those fingers were fumbling at his chest, skittering towards the buttons at the right – and he allowed a single second of breath before realisation drove him to kiss her even _harder._

His excitement spurred her and she tugged at the obstacles on his vest with fervour. The buttons were few and came undone quickly, and she slid the vest apart.

Even dulled by fabric, the press of her fingers against his stomach made him throb – which was when he realised that this was not happening the way it should.

“Wait,” he gasped away from the kiss, chest heaving, forehead falling to rest upon Hawke’s, “This isn’t– no, stop that–”. He chuckled breathlessly, releasing one side of her neck to gently desist the hand that was still trying to push his vest off.

There was a moment of surrealism as he absorbed the fact that his closest friend – and she had become just that – was currently clambering to disrobe him.

“ _Fenris_ ,” she pleaded, eyes searching. 

Hearing her beg his name had his resolve weakening. He’d never heard her say it like that, never imagined it would sound so incredible. 

Displaying a level of impatience he’d not come to expect, she darted in to capture his lower lip, and then suckled enticingly. The distressed sound she made was a siren’s call, and he withdrew again before reason could disappear completely; he shuddered down to his toes as her teeth scraped his lip in defiance. 

Doing this right was going to be difficult if Hawke didn’t stop doing things like _that._

“Hush,” he breathed, being softer with her than he had been with anyone in existing memory, “Be still.”

Keeping a hand on her neck, thumb still resting at her jaw, he pulled back from her forehead. Her eyes were so familiar; their colour, their shape, that subtle innocence. But this glaze of desire was new, and the intimacy of seeing such a private, foreign emotion in those depths was thrilling down to his soul.

Slowly, he circled Hawke, palm dragging around her throat as he did so; and he darkened at the feel of her swallowing against his fingers. When he was standing at her back, he stopped, and as instructed, she remained still.

Her trust made him feel powerful. He was no longer a slave, but a man; someone who _wanted_ to offer his strength and protection. 

Someone who _wanted._

And right now, he wanted to see all of Artemis Hawke that there was to see.

Scarcely able to believe that this moment was real, and not one of his many, many dreams, Fenris ran his fingers along the edge of Hawke's dress to the topmost clasp. Though the unnatural quickness of her breaths betrayed her trepidation, Hawke stood firm, allowing him this extraordinary privilege. One by one, the clasps came free, the hot coil in his abdomen winding that much tighter each time he watched them come apart. 

When there was nothing but the thin material at the shoulders keeping the dress in place, Fenris stopped to gather himself, lest his own desire foil all this effort to be slow and gentle.

Hawke was rigid in front of him, anticipating the inevitable.

With a slide of his hands over the shoulders, the material slipped over her arms, and then the dress was falling, fluttering to the floor to pool at Hawke’s feet like dark, emerald water.

And she stood in the centre, bare of everything, nothing worn underneath. 

All the air left him, replaced with something thicker, hardly able to move through his lungs at all.

Hawke was a vision of white; bright under the moon, looking all the world like she’d never met the sun. The subtle, feminine muscles of her back shifted as she folded her arms protectively over her chest, a nervous tremble running through them. It bothered him greatly that she did not realise what was so plain to everyone else.

Lips falling upon her silken shoulder, he said hoarsely, “ _Par solara_.” 

She couldn't have known the words, but still Hawke shivered wonderfully, her skin raising against his mouth. That she understood him so well possessed its own beauty. They truly _knew_ each other, and that made them apart of something great. 

They belonged to something. 

Releasing her shoulders - his hands no longer so steady - he addressed a wrong that should have been righted much earlier. A slide, a click and that damnable barrette was being dropped to the floor, allowing that long, thick hair to tumble free. The scent washed over him, sugary and clean, and he inhaled deeply, no longer fearful of being caught. 

Shyly, and quiet enough that he almost missed the words, Hawke said, “I like when you touch my hair.”

The confession made him smile down to his bones. Such endearing, unprovoked honesty was so very _Hawke._ Light enough to tickle, Fenris skimmed his fingers along her shoulder, sweeping golden tresses to expose her neck - the mess of breaths and quivers he was awarded was far more tantalising than what was fair. 

He had gone too long without tasting her, and so just at the edge of her spine, he dipped and kissed her again, opening his mouth to suck softly at the flesh. When his teeth scraped the sensitive ridge, Hawke gasped and jerked, an action which had the tendons of Fenris’ neck pulling tight - 

She had come very close to feeling, quite intimately, the mastery she had over his body.

No doubt, that friction would have felt _incredible_ ; a thought that brought both relief and frustration, for as much as he needed his control, he was eager to be away with it. He perched one hand above her hip and gently squeezed her waist, his eyes flicking down to drink in the amazing curves set before him, quaking under the desire to feel them moulded against his own body.

Voice tentative, but enough to cut through his intoxication, Hawke spoke again. “Fenris?”

He thumbed her hip bone by way of response.

“Can you… please don’t laugh,” she whispered, shrinking, and he lifted his gaze to frown into her hair, paying better attention, “I’ve always... Would you hold me? It's something I've... um...”

The request swelled his heart even as it broke it in half. 

Not a breath of time had passed before he was spinning her around and pulling her into his arms.

The embrace was crushing, he knew that, but knowing didn't help him relax. Hawke was still covering her breasts defensively, and so his arms wrapped around her fully. He wove one hand into the hair at the back of her head, and he tucked her beneath his chin, kissing into her crown as comfort to her unspoken sadness – sadness born of a yearning he’d taunted with his years of cruelty.

She was so small like this, even smaller than usual. Curled into him, unhidden by robes, naked and real in his embrace – Fenris just wanted to keep her this way forever. More than ever, he wished to be rid of his clothes, so that he might feel her skin flush against his own. 

Underneath his chin, Hawke shifted. 

At first, he thought that she was trying to move away – until she opened her mouth to the small, exposed rectangle of his throat and killed his ability to think at all. He choked out an unintelligible sound, not prepared for the light, suckling kiss. His reaction teased her and she made a needy humming sound, rattling his insides with the vibration. 

Of their own accord, his arms had tightened their hold, the hand in her hair fisting as, without reservation or disgust, she traced her tongue over the lyrium vines of his underjaw.

So dizzied by sensation, it wasn’t until the third button of his shirt had been freed that he realised Hawke’s hands had even been moving.

Not strong enough to stop her this time, he gently urged Hawke's head back and then was on those wayward lips with mad force. He drank her moan with deep relish, vicing around her body. 

Her forearms were pressed hard between them as she continued to unclasp his shirt, their glide on his muscles as she moved down the buttons just enough to turn his core molten. Fingers indenting Hawke’s flesh, he dragged his palm down onto her hip, low enough to brush the top of her buttocks. His thumb curled in to scrape her pelvic bone with the nail, and he must have discovered a hidden weakness, for the small ministration was enough to have Hawke gasping and arching into him. 

The movement ground their lower bodies together, her bareness rubbing against the hard ache in his pants and igniting it with pleasure. Their mouths came apart in a shared groan, one which echoed all around the Main Hall. 

It was definitely time to get out of this clothing.

“F-Fenris,” Hawke panted, eyes shut tight, hands pushing apart the fabric of his vest and shirt, “I don't want to- to wait any longer... please, just... just help...”

It was so rare for Hawke to be at a loss for words. She was nervous in this moment though, exposed in ways Fenris knew she usually tried so hard to avoid - it was something to which he could wholly relate. Though he understood her difficulties, no matter how many years passed, he doubted he would ever be able to comprehend why should would expose herself for _him._

Like he was worthy.

Like he was special.

Lips pressing firmly against her forehead, glad that she could not see his expression right at that moment, he dropped his arms, conceding to her needs. 

He felt the clothing bunch at his shoulders, and then Hawke was pushing it down his arms, forcing it over elbows and hands. It joined her dress on the floor with a muffled thud.

 _Burning_ to finally see Hawke, Fenris wove his fingers into the hair above her ear and stepped back.

It was a wonder his ribs didn’t crack with the power of his heartbeat right then.

A thousand times he’d imagined what lay beneath her robes, if her skin would be as white and clear as that he had seen, if she was soft or hard.

The pictures in his mind dishonoured the reality of her beauty.

Delicate collar bones, vaguely luminescent under the moon, pointed down to a swell of breasts so round and pert and inviting that he unconsciously licked his lips. The nipples were a dark peach, and aroused to such hard points that his pride writhed in glee. 

She was fit, but not a warrior; only a single line of muscle trailing down from the base of her chest, indenting an otherwise-flat stomach, to end just before a thatch of dark blonde curls. There he stared for a moment, allowing his want to blacken, before drifting back up to meet Hawke’s eyes. They were as nervous as they were pleading.

Struggling through the anticipation, he clutched at her waist and urged her to lower. She swallowed visibly but did so, slowly crouching to the floor, where Fenris gently guided her to lie on her back. Both hands bracing at either side of her head, he hovered above, feeling like he could live out a happy eternity in those wide, trusting eyes.

She was ethereal; bright, moonlit skin against the dark blue of the rug beneath. Her hair was spilled out around her head like a halo, the night giving the locks the sheen of starlight.

They had spent so much time here, in the centre of this house – breaking priceless crockery just for fun, eating meals, catching their breath as they cleaned, learning to rely on each other as battle partners, as comrades. 

It was fitting that they would be here now, and he thought, by the emotion in Hawke’s stare, that maybe she had realised the same.

With soul-splitting tenderness, she reached up and cupped his cheek. He tilted in, eyes closing as he kissed the heel of her palm.

This was so _right._

Opening his gaze once more, a growing fire in its depths, he bent to have her lips. It was barely more than a meeting, but the stillness was enough for this second – he’d just wanted to be close again, to lose his breath in hers.

Leaving her hazed and pink, he fluttered down over her chin, enjoying the little flexes of her fingers that had since moved to coil in his hair. Keeping his lips as a mere brush, he journeyed down her neck, revelling in the caress of her satin skin. Her breathing became splintered as he travelled, each hitch and shuddery exhale exciting his body that much more.

Down he went, through the passage of her clavicle to rest just below, but the thud of her pulse was too much for his frayed control. Certain that he would be punished for such brazenness, but welcoming what would be such a glorious death, he lifted from her skin, only to return and capture a hard, sand-coloured nipple.

Hawke made a sound of pure wickedness, and she bowed into him, her hand gathering chunks of his hair. 

Instantly enthralled, he sucked softly, his tongue flattening and rubbing against the underside of the bud as he did so. The moans which filled the Hall did not just belong to Hawke – being able to reduce her to such wantonness taunted his own desire, made him vocal when he didn’t mean to be. 

Driven by their combined need, his draws became more insistent, and he swiftly brought a hand to cradle her neglected breast. Simultaneously, he rotated the buds with tongue and thumb, and whilst her cry was lost in the blood in his ears, it was impossible to miss the way she lifted her hips to skim hopelessly against his clothed thigh.

“ _Fenris_ ,” she gasped, her hips shifting, his name the only word she could now manage.

This shouldn’t have been real. This was Hawke, his friend and battle partner, housemate and rival. It was mere fantasy that she should be here, all but begging with her body to be touched.

But this was real, and she _was_ begging, and he would be a fool to deny her.

Lifting from her breast, but not pulling away much further than that, he reached between them and unclasped his pants, shivering in relief as he escaped the painful confines. Surprising him, but in a _very_ good way, Hawke lifted her legs and used her feet to help drag the pants down. She was embarrassed but determined. The clothing came free, and he kicked it away to join the rest of their discarded garments.

And, finally, as they lay together in the centre of the house, skin and lyrium awash with moonlight – he and Hawke were both bare.

She looked up at him with such adoration, that he felt, for the first time, no fear or sickness at being so on display – he felt _proud_. The desire in her eyes was pure, for _all_ of him. Not his markings, not his body, not his character, but _all_ of these things.

And Fenris was certain of this because he knew Artemis Hawke’s eyes better than anyone. He knew _her_ better than anyone.

Watching her with an intensity that darkened the pink on her cheeks, he cupped the inside of her thigh, urged it to part. Hawke bit her lip and acquiesced instantly, opening herself to Fenris fully; her compliancy was felt as a great throb in the very depths of him. 

Worried that his gentleness would falter, he focussed intently on Hawke’s face, seeking any reaction that would tell him that he’d done something wrong.

It was difficult not to get lost in that face though. Parts of her heavy, golden fringe stuck to her forehead, her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes, hooded with arousal, were unwilling to leave his own – the image threatened to strangle him with its magnificence.

He hovered between her parted thighs, and her legs glided up to encase him. They stared into each other, a shared disbelief that they had come to this point. 

Beside her head she had a hand curled, and Fenris wove his fingers into it, grasped it tightly. At the other side, he splayed his palm against the floor to hold the rest of his weight.

And slowly, a tremble passing between them, he entered.

Hawke gasped and he hissed a benediction, the arch of her body pulling more of him inside. 

The expressions rushing across her face were as beguiling as this sensation; joy would change to frustration in a blink, awe to determination. 

This was heat and home.

When they were connected completely, as joined as two people could possibly be, Fenris nearly collapsed with the magnitude of shudders rippling through his being. Hawke was all around, an energy which washed against his skin like a tide, then soaked right through to fill his veins and bones. Never had he felt so utterly engulfed by a person. 

Clutching her hand hard enough to whiten his knuckles, he began to move.

They were slow with each other; not tentative, but both seeking more than flesh and release. Fenris’ strokes were long and deliberate, each one drawn out enough to allow a handful of short breaths between them. 

All the while, Hawke’s gaze did not waver, a gesture that was, paradoxically, powerful in its vulnerability. Those eyes hid nothing. They burned with her pleasure, with her trust in Fenris, and beneath the fire, they mirrored the peace he had found here. 

It was an eternity that they writhed together. This was a bliss he wanted to make last. From the rapid rise and fall of Hawke’s glossy breasts to the salt he tasted whenever he dipped to skim across her lips – he would seal it all to memory. 

In place of speed, there was intensity; each of his movements a firm drag that tortured them both. Every retreat was as protracted as his thrusts, though he never left her completely, only withdrew enough to cause an anguishing grind. Often, he would linger at that secret spot inside of her, torment it until he was rewarded with a strangled whine or a soft plead.

He would never have his fill of those sounds.

The joining was fluid and uncompromising, coating their bodies with sweat and driving the cold of the manor far away. Hawke’s hand was slippery in his grasp, but his fingers only curled tighter.

The pressure in his abdomen was reaching a dangerous peak, and he bunched his brows in concentration, resisting the temptation to give into his baseness. A bead of moisture escaped his cheek to land upon Hawke’s, sliding to disappear into her sea of hair.

They were both close, their breaths ragged and low, the dewed legs around Fenris’ waist clamping. 

Hawke began to whimper, and he moved a little harder, a heartbeat faster, bewitched by the noises. Each of his muscles rippled and ached with the control required to maintain this ardent pace.

His eyes drilled down into Hawke, this desperation to see her finish like nothing he’d ever felt. Her lips were shaking in an effort to produce proper words, but she was without air and reason now. Only moans escaped that mouth, each one racing to his throbbing, scorching core.

This heat was spreading, licking at the edges of their sanity – and when Hawke threw her head back, Fenris had only a blink of warning before that heat exploded.

The wail that escaped her throat was shattering; it drew Fenris’ release as surely as the slick body which spasmed around him. 

This pleasure turned the world white hot. The worst of his cry – a long and inhumanly guttural sound – was poured into the crook of Hawke’s neck, and he was no longer moving but buried deep within, totally encompassed by her climax. It was surely a divine trespass that he should presume to spill himself inside this woman, but she welcomed it, held him fast with her thighs and hands, and he was only too eager to abide.

This was everything he’d ever wanted, even if he hadn’t known. Fenris _filled_ Hawke, and it made her soar. _He_ had been the key to this joy. Some of the scars on his soul were smoothed flat by the flood that was this moment, and he didn’t want it to end, simply wanted Hawke to keep him in this place until there was not a single mar left.

But like a storm, the chaos slowly faded. Thunder became a rumble, the lightning became static on the skin.

The last of Fenris teemed into Hawke as her own peak subsided, leaving him with a glorious, physical emptiness he’d never known before. They were both hot and trembling, and it took a great deal of effort for him not to simply collapse. 

This afterglow was wondrous, like every inch of muscle had been kneaded and warmed. He burrowed deeper into Hawke’s neck and hair, and there he kissed her wearily. A shaky arm slunk across his back, pulling Fenris closer, inviting the full weight of him to lay upon the body underneath. 

Though it pained him, he chose to withdraw so as not to crush her, the act eliciting a small, objecting whine from Hawke. That she shared in his disappointment at being separated made his calmed pulse quicken once more. 

Instead, he rolled them, bringing Hawke to lie against his chest – and he never imagined that it would be so pleasurable to hold her this way. As though she might disappear back into the dream from which she'd surely emerged, his weary arms furled around the woman more firmly. 

Hawke was already struggling to stay awake, and the sight of her nuzzling against his pectoral nearly melted him through the floor. This still felt like a wonderful fantasy.

Smoothing her dishevelled hair idly, and marvelling that he should be allowed such a privilege, he muttered, “Sleep, Hawke.”

“Don’t want to,” she murmured, “S’too nice.”

He chuckled breathlessly, hearing in her voice that she wasn’t far from slumber. The jump of his chest shifted her hair, tickling his lyrium. He didn’t even mind.

“I can’t imagine I’m all that comfortable,” he remarked quietly.

“Mmm.”

He smiled, watching the mage’s eyes flutter close. 

Above them, the moon continued to shine brilliantly, bathing them both in its clean light. He watched the sky for a time, letting the drift of cloud and winking of stars complement the rare peace in his body and mind. 

Never had he been so happy.

“Fenris?” Hawke mumbled, barely-conscious. He’d thought her already asleep.

Absurdly glad to hear her voice again, he whispered, “Yes, Hawke?”

But she said nothing more. This time he was certain she was asleep, that rhythmic breathing as familiar as her face now.

Curious as to what Hawke was about to say, he contemplated the possibilities while he enjoyed the sound and sight of her slumber. But his own exhaustion could not be denied for long, and he reluctantly closed his eyes.

Fenris had meant to say something as well, but Hawke had faded before giving him the chance. 

He would have to tell her tomorrow.

✷


	31. Chapter 31

It was Fenris who woke first. 

Dawn filtered through the roof lantern, turning the Main Hall cold and grey. Hawke still rested on his chest, and she looked as exquisite now, painted by the morning, as she had by the night.

But the morning was also heavy.

This could be the day they were finally unbound. He wanted to be rid of the tether… but he was afraid.

In the light of day, last night seemed like a wild dream. Once the tether was broken, they would be free of each other. Without closeness being an obligation, would she embrace what had happened… or let it do what all dreams did: drift away until it was barely remembered?

The beautiful woman in his arms stirred, and were it not for this sick, swirling foreboding in his gut, his body would have no doubt reacted very strongly to the sensation. The feel of her skin and hair sliding against him as she roused was wonderful – too wonderful for him to lose.

If only they could stay right here on this rug. He could have her again and again, wake to her like this every morning, never have to know fear or doubt.

Her sleepy, green eyes opened to him and she spread into a muzzy smile.

“Good…” she began, all endearing dopiness, but stopped short. It took but one look at Fenris and the peaceful expression disappeared from her face. Tone devoid of all cheer now, she finished, “… Morning.”

“Good morning,” he replied dumbly, feeling like his very insides had begun to shake. They stared at each other for a moment longer, a weighty silence descending.

Cheeks pinking, gaze sliding away, Hawke grabbed awkwardly for her discarded dress. She lifted from Fenris just enough so she could slip the garment in between, then simultaneously sat up and wrapped the material around her naked body.

She clutched the dress tightly, and he watched with a sinking spirit as her eyes flickered to the barrette lying with the rest of the clothing. 

She was nervous, uncomfortable, wanting to put her mask back on even as he watched.

“It’s, umm… it’s cool this morning,” she spoke finally, head down as she focussed on smoothing the dress as much over her lap as possible.

“Yes,” he only said, courage shrinking faster and faster.

The weather. They were actually speaking about the weather. And Hawke wouldn’t even look at him.

Though it felt like giving up, he scooped up his own clothing and draped it across his lap. As he shuffled to sit up properly, Hawke sneaked a glance, but swiftly looked away again. Attempting to fold her arms while still holding the dress, she rambled, “In this kind of weather, we should get to the camp in good time… That’s– that’s good. Don’t you think? You’ll be… I mean, we’ll be… this ritual will be done before you know it.” 

He couldn’t bear to hear her talk about the ritual with such flippancy. Their bodies were no longer even touching. She’d pulled away, and only seemed interested in pulling away further.

And fast.

“Hawke,” he started, chest hammering, no idea where he was going from here, “About… what happened…”

In a blurry sweep of blonde hair, she turned to him once more. Her expression had turned vaguely desperate, and he quavered. 

_Stop_ , that face said to him.

They stared at each other fiercely, a flood of unspoken words in each other’s eyes that neither could manage to read.

Now was the time to say what he’d meant to last night – that she was a blessing to an undeserving world, that he wanted to stay with her, tether or no tether.

The very thought of being without her, of never knowing the feel of her on his body again, it made his chest ache enough to fracture his breath. Hawke was a light; the brightest he’d ever seen. It was easy to be free when she was around, to forget the horrors of his past.

No, she was not perfect. But because he knew that, had been allowed close enough to see all of her flaws, she _was_ perfect. She was childish and impulsive, pulled him into schemes and met his objections with brushing smiles. 

Her loquaciousness could be painful. From the moment the sun rose to after they’d both settled to sleep, her mouth would run, often causing an echo in Fenris’ mind that would keep him awake long after Hawke had fallen to sleep. 

She could be immature in her stubbornness, too forgiving or naïve, and she didn’t always travel in decent company.

Hawke had flaws. But Fenris didn’t know how he’d survive a life without them.

The confession stuck in his throat, though. The terror that she might deny him now, or accept him and change her mind once unbound was paralysing. It was a terror which only grew when Hawke refused to say anything herself, refused to do anything but stare at him with that pained, imploring expression.

He could not finish his statement, and so the moment died. 

It was Hawke who spoke next, and she did so with averted eyes and sagged shoulders ( _relief_ , his mind supplied mournfully), her tone blank, quiet. “I suppose we should get ready to leave.”

In near-silence, they armored and robed and prepared their belongings. They’d bathed first though, and the water had felt cruel, icy, for it washed away Hawke’s scent… like she’d never touched Fenris at all.

Even as they walked through the city, Hawke said nothing. Nothing of what they’d done, what they were going to do. No mention of a future. 

The end was coming. 

He’d been too awful to her these past years; he wasn’t enough for her. Their bond would break, and she would let him go. Sadly, full of guilt, because Hawke wasn’t malicious – but she would still let him go.

Merrill and Anders were waiting for them at the city gates, chatting and smiling and making Fenris bitter with the display. It was easy for _them_ , of all people, and yet it felt like he and Hawke were straining to simply breathe. 

Possessing enough awareness to realise that their tethered companions were not in the mood to speak, the blood mage and abomination kept to themselves for the trek. They seemed content enough to do so, and Fenris tried not to focus on their happy banter or Anders’ occasional flirtation, lest his repulsion and envy drive him to tear out a few hearts.

The feel of Hawke underneath him was still fresh in his memory. Every broken moan and trail of gooseflesh was stark inside his mind, and he wanted it to stay that vivid forever. He never wanted to forget. 

He was terrified of reaching the Dalish camp. 

_He never wanted to forget._

A hundred times, Fenris thought of just grabbing her, audience or not, and telling her this. He needed to touch her again, needed her to touch him, tell him that he was being paranoid, that she would be in his arms again soon and never leave.

But the day wore on, they passed the Dalish sentries, and their time was up.

Marethari was waiting by her usual place at the fire, staff in hand and a satchel at her hip.

“ _Aneth ara_ ,” she smiled, an air of anticipation about her, “You have arrived in good time.”

Hawke nodded, her own smile strained. Her tension only fuelled his fear.

The Keeper’s eyes sparkled with shrewdness.

“You are both uneasy,” she remarked, and though his attention sharpened, she did not elaborate, “Come. All will be well.”

And they began to scale the mountain.

✷

The hike was not as arduous as it had been in the past. With four mages in the party, the evils of Sundermount were hardly given the chance to rise before they were slammed, burned or pulled back into the ground. The Dalish Keeper was exceptionally powerful, but it was a power only tasted in the air, not displayed. Her magic was perfectly controlled, never ostentatious like that of the abomination or her ex-protégé. 

The tether had forced Hawke to adopt a similar style for Fenris’ safety, and though lacking the years of Marethari, she was more powerful for the discipline she’d gained – and both she and Fenris more powerful for the discipline they’d gained together.

Fighting with her as they scaled the mountain was bittersweet. That harmony tried to calm him. It said that binds didn’t matter, that they were connected regardless. But, just as his memory of last night, he wondered if that harmony would also erode with time.

When the sun had nearly melted completely behind the horizon, they set camp. It reminded eerily of that first, fateful trip so many weeks ago. He had yelled at Hawke then, thought her a fool for making them stop.

Now he would gladly hear her yell at _him_ , if only to hear her say _something._

Fenris volunteered to keep vigil for most of the night, just as he had that first time. On this occasion, however, he just wished for the opportunity to watch Hawke whilst she slept. So many times that he lost count, he ran his fingers along her fringe or tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, desperate to burn the sensation to his mind. 

It was only as he was doing this for, perhaps, the twentieth time, that he realised he was being watched. 

Fenris snatched his hand away like he’d been burned and snapped to attention. Sitting on the log across the fire was Keeper Marethari, a gentle and knowing expression on her face.

He was more irritated than embarrassed, and glared freely.

“I see your relationship has changed much since your first visit,” the Keeper said with a small smile, not at all shaken by Fenris’ silent hostility.

“That is none of your business,” he snapped, then recoiled; a quick sweep assured him that the rest of the camp was still sleeping soundly, however.

“I was woken by a restlessness in the camp,” Marethari said, though Fenris had not asked, “It appears that you are the unhappy source.”

“Go back to sleep, old woman,” he said hotly, one hand clenched at his side. He only wanted to be left alone. This could be his final opportunity to be this close to Hawke, and the witch was stealing precious moments.

Unable to help himself, he cast a look to his right, where Hawke was fast asleep. She had rolled onto her back since Marethari had begun talking; one of her arms flung out, her cheek indented with the creases of her grain camp pillow. Had the situation been different, he would have smiled.

His chest would not stop _hurting._

“She has become very special to you,” the Keeper said softly, and all of his muscles turned to cold steel, “And you fear what tomorrow will bring… or, more accurately, what it might take.”

Eyes still on Hawke, he ground out, “Leave me be.”

That wasn’t truly what he’d wanted to say. He wanted to ask if she knew something he did not, something of Hawke’s thoughts or feelings or even the future, but no matter the depth of his despair, Fenris still had his pride.

That the Keeper offered no words of comfort was possibly answer enough.

After an indeterminable stretch of time, during which Fenris still had not turned from Hawke, Marethari said, rather cryptically, “You will be stronger when this is done.”

And then she retired once more.

✷

The morning brought with it a chill, though it was the ice in his gut which was felt most sharply. The feeling did not improve as they walked, even when the sun had chased away the dawn’s mist and grey.

The mountain was puddled with watery light and weak shadow by the time they approached the ritual site. Fenris’ heart nearly burst from his ribcage when Marethari led them across the threshold without even hesitating.

This was all happening very fast.

The clearing was just as he remembered. This shouldn’t have been a surprise, for places like this had an agelessness about them – but _everything_ was the same, from the damp coolness, down to the scattered dapples of light cast upon the ground by the quartz-beset pillars.

They walked slowly, the eeriness of the ancient burial ground pressing down on them. It was too bright here. The natural high walls should have steeped the clearing in shadow, but the sun always seemed to shine directly overhead, setting the grass and stones alight.

“It’s strange being back,” Hawke murmured, her eyes flitting to Fenris’ and then disappearing again. One tiny, sideways look and his heart had still skipped a beat. 

In front of them, Merrill’s head was darting around like she was trying to see everything at once. “Maybe we can pick some more flowers while we’re here.”

Next to her, Anders chuckled. “You mean the flowers which inadvertently caused this mess?”

“Well, yes,” she said fairly, “but I’m sure it will be alright if Hawke doesn’t try to help this time.”

Usually, Hawke would have laughed at the unintentional jab, but this time her expression remained frighteningly distant.

At the end of the pillars, they stopped, and there lay the accursed altar. The golden, mirrored crescent moons glared up at them, the sun setting them ablaze, and around the slab of stone were regrown _vheravi._

The group fanned out to encompass the altar, he and Hawke instinctively taking the sides they had occupied when the bond was first forged.

They were forced to look at each other, and he felt his insides crumble.

She was so sad... like they were saying goodbye.

There was a hand at his peripheral and he was glad for the excuse to turn away, to pretend for a moment longer that everything would be alright. Marethari handed him a vial of orange liquid, her eyes glittering with sympathy, knowing full well what was about to happen. It seemed there was no escape from this truth.

As she handed a second vial to Hawke, she said, “This potion will prime your bodies and spirits for the ritual. Drink it all and drink it fast, for I daresay it will not taste pleasant.”

Not allowing their trepidation to take hold, they pulled out the stoppers with a synchronised _‘pop’_. Hawke’s lips pulled into a tragic little smile, which did nothing to soothe his torment, and lifted her hand as though to toast. Then they were both tipping back the vials.

They’d barely swallowed before they were trying to cough the acrid liquid back up. It tasted like vinegar and burned just as badly, Fenris’ eyes watering until the altar below became a mere shimmer of gold.

From beyond their hacking, Marethari warned, “Careful, do not purge the potion.”

Heeding the words, he sucked in a harsh breath, the sound like a death rattle. Even when he did manage to completely relax his throat, it was left feeling like he’d just gulped sand. Merrill, who had been rubbing Hawke’s back, stepped back to Anders’ side to watch on worriedly.

“They should be serving that at _The Hanged Man_ ,” Hawke wheezed, straightening. Fenris managed a raspy laugh, but it was hollow, just like the attempt at humour itself.

“We must work quickly,” Marethari said, standing to the right with her staff firmly in hand, “Sit before the _an’ravi_ stone but do not touch it, then grasp the _vheravi_ in one hand.”

The potion was working its way through his system quickly, like a needle pulling a sharp hair through his veins, occasionally sticking or slicing the walls. He ground his teeth tightly together and knelt, noting the pinching of Hawke’s face as she lowered as well.

He was beginning to feel dizzy. The ground shifted.

Marethari brought her staff down on the _an’ravi_ stone; it was a hammer in his head, and unseen power splashed up from the impact point. Immediately, she began to chant.

_“Assanen su’in sa bor’assan…”_

Her voice was commanding, and her staff pounded in a beat. It echoed in his skull, shaking the cage of bone until his eyes could barely focus. 

_“…Elgaren shiral’in sa era…”_

His vision was already swimming, but in the ebbs he could make out Hawke, her blurry figure of gold and white like a lifeline. She was panting, in pain, just as unable to escape this terrible _SLAM. SLAM. SLAM._

_“…Bora ven uviren sahlin…”_

_Vatara_ , no, this was too much. He was going to expel his stomach, pass out, both maybe. The voice was thunder in his ears, shaking his teeth and nerves. And through it all, he could feel the potion burning through his intestines, acidic and hot. 

_SLAM... Stop... SLAM..._

The world was coming apart at the seams... colour fusing... light poking through splits in the Veil...

_“…Elgar’nan! Tu ir’misu eluvian!…”_

SLAM.

The sound was everywhere... it was _hurting so much_ , beating on his brain... _stop stop stop_...

SLAM.

_...Stop now...._

SLAM.

_“…Tu eluvin him uvhenanen!”_

_STOP!_

As though commanded, Fenris’ arm moved, and with the sound of a lightning strike, his palm smacked down on the altar.

For one hideous, unforgettable second, his body felt like it had been cleaved in two. If he screamed, he didn’t hear it, for there was nothing in the world anymore but that pain.

And then it was gone.

And so was the world.

✷

Fenris remembered this place.

He’d forgotten until now, that time he and Hawke had spent together in the Fade so long ago. This was – had been – her farm in Lothering, only it wasn’t, of course, because this was not a land of reality.

It looked very different to how it had during his first visit. The farm was thick with fog, and even if he squinted, not much could be properly seen.

“Hawke?” he called, knowing she must be somewhere among the mist.

The soil was thinner than it had been last time, shifting between his toes like beach sand as he stumbled across the yard. The fog was thickening; he could barely see more than cloud and flashes of colour now.

Beyond the smoky tendrils, a shadow moved. He honed his vision, strained to keep the shadow in his sights as he hurried forward. The shadow drew nearer. Footsteps. Breathing.

Hawke.

She emerged from the gloom, face harried and fearful.

“ _Fenris_ ,” she gasped, then she looked behind, up, around, “We don’t have much time.”

The volume and clarity of her voice fluctuated, one moment sounding normal, the next as though her face had been muffled by a pillow.

“What do you mean?” he said with concern, “What is happening here, Hawke?”

“This is my dream, but you’re losing your connection,” she explained in a rush, then stepped closer, eyes pained, “We’re separating.”

That struck a chord… 

They were on a mountain… there was magic, the Dalish elder… the _tether._

“ _Fenris_ ,” she breathed, tears forming. The fog was nearly encompassing.

Her hand, so shaky, came up to caress his cheek, and then she was leaning forward to capture his lips. So startled and confused, he didn’t respond, but stayed still while Hawke’s mouth trembled against his own, her dream tears slipping down between.

When she pulled away, it was only enough to look into his eyes. 

“Hawke–”

She smiled sadly and pressed a thumb to his lips. “Please, just let me have this.”

He frowned. “Hawke, I don’t…”

Wait.

He _remembered._

The tether. That night. _All of it._ But Hawke… 

Oh no. _No._ She thought _he_ didn’t want _her_. That was why she’d been so distant.

Panicked, feeling the walls of this dream closing in, Fenris reached for her… 

But it was too late.

There was nothing but fog.

✷

Light stabbed through Fenris’ eyelids, adding to his disorientation, and he rolled to the side to escape.

He’d had a dream.

Burying his face into grass, he tried hold onto the slipping threads (it was _important_ , he could _feel_ it), but the threads were covered in oil, too slick for his fingers.

There was nothing to do but let them go.

“See, children,” the Keeper said from above, “They are stirring, as I told you they would.”

The relieved sighs were ignored as he carefully righted himself, the potion and magic still writhing unpleasantly in his stomach.

He was at the left of the altar now, obviously having been dragged there after passing out, and sitting by his side, staring pensively at her now tattoo-less wrist, was Hawke.

“I believe the bond has been broken,” Marethari announced, “but there is only one way to be certain.”

The suggestion made his head swim, and he caught Hawke’s eye, hoping to gauge how she felt about this moment... only to find her face so devoid of emotion that it punched the air from his lungs. 

The moment of her rejection was coming. 

There was an overwhelming feeling of disconnection as he and Hawke rose to their feet. Like this was a dream, his limbs felt too light, full of air. The lightness navigated to his head as he stood there before her. The thoughts inside floated around, unable to be grasped properly. This just couldn’t be real. 

There wasn’t even any warning.

One, two, three steps backwards, and Hawke had moved out of range.

Only she hadn't, because there was no range anymore.

It was barely seven feet between them but it looked so wrong. Instinct told him this was _bad, run forward, get back in the boundary._

This airiness in his head wouldn’t go away. He was surely going to be ill.

As soon as she’d taken that final step, Hawke’s face had briefly contorted. It was a look of agony, like she was about to buckle over or scream, but it was gone quickly, and Fenris was too lost in his own anguish to fully absorb the display.

Their companions were clapping or cheering for this victory.

And while it was a success, it also wasn’t. The tether was broken and that was a good thing. 

But now Hawke had no reason to stay.

✷


	32. Chapter 32

The hike down the mountain and back to Kirkwall was a blur. Fenris and Hawke stayed just within six feet of each other, no further, no closer. The bond had been severed, but it was instinct for them to walk at a certain proximity.

It offered no comfort though, because it was a closeness born of habit, not choice.

Hawke had been sure to express deep thanks to the Keeper, though none of her words had registered. For a while, Anders and Merrill attempted to engage Hawke in conversation, naturally assuming that she – and Fenris – should be in high spirits. 

They couldn’t know though, what losing the tether had meant. They couldn’t know about the remorse weighing on her mind, or the loss weighing on his heart.

That night they’d spent together had been glorious; the single greatest experience of Fenris’ existence. It had meant something to Hawke too, he _had_ to believe that.

But that was where it ended, apparently. 

It had been in her eyes all day, a shadow of doom and regret. There had been no words of comfort or promise either, just this silence that had fuelled his own. 

He could not confess the truth of his desires when she was so closed.

It had been a beautiful night, but now that they were both free, there was no reason to make it something more.

It was easier to let it rest.

Or, it was easy for Hawke. Fenris didn’t know how he was going to let go. 

Night was looming as they walked back through the city. The pastels of sunset had stained grey and blue, the moon dim but growing bolder fast. They parted ways with Anders and Merrill at _The Hanged Man_ , and though the pair invited them (mostly Hawke) to have celebratory drinks with the rest of the group, the offer was heartily declined.

It was a day of mirror images, for they had done this too on the first day of the tether – walked through the city alone, a hard nothingness between them. Only this time, when they stopped outside Hawke’s estate, the mood was far different. 

This time, Fenris felt like his insides were collapsing.

That wretched fake smile slipped onto Hawke's face, though it was not as finely polished as usual, the edges rough. “I suppose I’ll… collect my things tomorrow.”

It would have been kinder for her to remove them now. Tonight he would be surrounded by her, but she would be long gone.

His voice betrayed nothing of his turmoil. “Very well.”

The silver wings of her staff glinted over her shoulder as she shifted uncomfortably. Another reminder of everything they’d shared. He wondered if she’d stop using it now.

“This is odd, huh?” she continued with this awkward, forced lightness. 

He said nothing, unable to speak through the tightness in his throat. She continued to speak anyway, and her voice had changed, become less steady. “Do you remember that first night? How we fought the whole time?” she was looking past him now, like she wasn't truly speaking to _Fenris_ at all, “You even yelled at me for speaking to you through the bathroom door. Of course, you continued to do that… for a while anyway… One day, when I talked, you– you just… talked back…” 

Both her smile and her voice faltered. Memories of their time together raced through Fenris’ mind as Hawke had spoken, each one causing more pain than the last.

“I…” she started again, face full of something that made the world stop. But she paused, closed her eyes briefly, and then pulled the smile back. “Goodnight, Fenris.”

Without waiting for even a nod, Hawke turned around, crossed her entrance alcove and then disappeared inside her manor.

And Fenris wanted to _roar._

He wanted to destroy something, to kill someone, to do anything that would purge his body of this pain.

Watching Hawke walk away was the worst thing he’d ever seen. He'd thought that, after a lifetime of slavery, he had experienced every agony possible. He'd been wrong. So very wrong.

This was going to crush him.

For the first time in weeks, Fenris travelled to his manor alone.

He was going to drink and find something to break – maybe one of the new pieces of furniture they’d bought together. Or the books Hawke hadn’t let him burn. Or the rug in the Main Hall, where they had spent that perfect night.

The ideas were empty, though. He could no more throw these things into the fire than he could Hawke.

It was dark inside his mansion. He’d forgotten how dark it could be. During her stay, Hawke had always been ready with a palm of starlight or a snap of fingers to light a fire.

Fenris dug the heel of his palm into an eye as he walked through the Main Hall, willing away the memories invading his mind. Though their clothes no longer littered the floor, the rug was still rolled out, and _that place_ was blanketed in moonlight. Like a beacon.

This _hurt._

He escaped the Hall, conquering each step of the staircase with legs as heavy as iron. There was no escape from this nightmare, though. Three seconds inside his bedchamber and Fenris was ready to drink into oblivion.

The entire room smelled of clotted cream.

It could have been in the very stone. Surely no amount of open windows – or time – would ever be able to clear this scent.

Chest slowly ripping apart, Fenris sat on the bench before the frigid hearth and stared at the suitcase sitting to his right. He slid his hand along the familiar worn, red wood and tarnished clasps, a shudder racking his body. 

Mercilessly, most of Hawke’s belongings weren’t even contained within this case, but had been distributed throughout the manor. If he were to open the closet by the window, he would find a pair of robes, a nightdress and some house clothes, all thick with her aroma.

The new bureau which sat in a corner by the door sported her quills and inkpot. Though, even after purchasing the desk, she’d opted to do her writing by the fire rather than make Fenris hover.

The bathroom would be brimming with Hawke as well. Everything would still be sitting there – her milk soap bars, the masculine razor she used to shave the hair from her shapely, pale legs, the extra barrette she kept for the hair he might never see unbound again.

There would be no sleep for Fenris tonight, not when he was being so thoroughly haunted.

Swallowing ash, he lifted his hand from the suitcase.

At least, he tried.

A latch had caught onto his gauntlet, partially hooking underneath one of the edges which framed his exposed palm.

It would have been a simple matter to carefully wriggle the metal apart, but Fenris had no reserves of care. A jerk and the gauntlet came free.

And so did the latch.

The worn clasp came apart and one half of the case opened a crack... allowing a corner of red velvet to slip out.

The familiar fabric seized his attention and breath with equal totality.

Given courage through a sudden, desperate hope, Fenris reached down and gripped the corner with shaking fingers. He tugged and it glided through the case wedge easily. When the swath had been completely liberated, he draped it across his palm, as gently as though it was dust stitched together.

And he stared.

It was a strip of the sash they’d used in their combat training. Hawke had kept a piece after it had been cut in two.

Hawke… had kept a piece.

A keepsake.

Hawke had wanted a _keepsake._

_Hawke wanted to remember._

Fenris was, unequivocally, the greatest fool in Thedas.

Too precious to throw in haste, and he in too much haste to even put it down respectfully, Fenris held onto the red slip as he stood... 

_As he ran._

He was out of the chamber and across the landing in a blink. Two, three steps at a time, he descended the staircase, his normally silent steps resonating sharply in the Hall. As he raced through the manor, he haphazardly knotted the slip around his wrist to free his hands; then he was out the door and streaming through the newly-fallen night.

Fenris had made the same mistake he’d been making with Hawke for five years – seen something awful instead of the truth. Fear and insecurity coloured his vision, clogged his ears, and so all that he witnessed was warped and ugly.

From the moment they’d woken tangled on that rug, he’d been waiting for Hawke to take the next step, too afraid to take it himself. He’d been waiting for her to open her arms, to give him a reassuring smile, to tell him that there was more between them than a damn magical tether and a single night of passion.

And she’d been waiting for him to do the exact same thing.

He streamed across the mansion district, heart pounding harder and faster than his footsteps.

This needed to be set right and it could not be delayed for another second – each was another moment Hawke was left feeling alone and abandoned. He did not need her to open his eyes this time. Fenris would go to _her_. He would show her that he was capable of caring for her on his own strength…

Except, upon rounding the staircase which led down into the Chantry courtyard, he discovered that Hawke had already discovered a strength of her own.

Halfway down, rooted in place by Fenris’ sudden emergence, was the woman herself.

One foot frozen to the next step, she peered wide-eyed up at him, mouth parting but producing no sound. And he peered back from the top of the staircase, a pressure building inside his chest. 

They’d set out to find each other.

Her gaze shifted, locking onto the velvet wrapped around his wrist. Blinking rapidly, moisture gathering on her lashes, she breathed, “You _were_ coming.”

Adrenaline and joy more powerful than his reason, Fenris thundered down those steps. Hawke didn’t move, and then he was there, tilting her head while he bent down, and he was kissing her.

The assault made her gasp, and he swallowed it with a deep, hitched groan, pulling her closer, urging her to come back to him.

Which was exactly what she did.

A sob hummed against his lips, and then Hawke was rising on her toes, her hands were snaking through his hair. 

_Everything would be fine._

The meeting was a whirlwind. 

The distance Fenris had created in his mind grew smaller and smaller as they kissed. They clutched to each other like it had been an eternity since they’d touched, devoured every moan and whimper like nothing would ever taste as good. 

They filled the holes in each other, patched the wounds that had been caused by doubt, and it was only when the last wisps of air had been pulled from their lungs that they parted.

Shuddering and heaving, they separated, Fenris drawing Hawke up onto his step so that he could embrace her fully. The nightmare of the past two days had finally ended, and though the memory left him trembling and unsteady, it was swiftly being swept away by the rush of relief that could only come with waking. 

Hot, moist breath wafted unevenly against his neck as Hawke rested her face there, coaxing a series of delicious tingles from his skin, and gradually, a calm descended.

One of Hawke’s hands meandered in his hair, playing with the locks and caressing his scalp.

Fenris wanted to sink into her. 

“I came to tell you…” she whispered, but was silenced by an insistent kiss to her temple. He stayed there, enjoying the jump of her pulse against his lips and the heavy fringe tickling his nose.

“I know,” he said, and unable to resist, his lips quirked, “You kept me waiting, mage.”

One of the hands in his hair dislodged, only to return as a smack to the back of the head. He could only chuckle.

“You’re an unforgiveable hypocrite,” Hawke muttered, completely devoid of ire, her hand soothing where she’d struck him, even though they both knew it hadn’t hurt.

Lips still dragging against her temple, he repeated, “I know.” 

“And 'mage' is not my–”

“Artemis,” Fenris rumbled, coiling around her more tightly – and then with a depth of meaning he hoped would translate, “ _I know._ ”

Immune to the cold and darkness, they remained entwined on that step for a very long time. When they did finally make for his manor, Hawke- Artemis - weaved her fingers through his without hesitation, no concern for the harsh edges of his gauntlet.

There was, in addition, not even a blink of recognition that this was the first time someone had engaged him in such casual affection. 

What made the gesture more beautiful than anything else, however, was that there was no tether filling Fenris' mind with doubt about Artemis' intent. Holding his hand like this, lyrium scars, sharp edges and all – this was something she truly wanted. 

It was pure choice.

Just inside the entrance alcove, she paused and palmed the door affectionately, all of her light now returned. 

Glowing, warm, this was how she should always be.

“I’m still impressed that we managed to fix this entire manor,” she said, one hand still on the wood as she turned to smile up at Fenris, “Imagine what we could accomplish now that we can actually move away from one another.”

There was that _glint_ in her eye. That excited, terrifying sparkle that meant Fenris would soon be roped into something ridiculous.

Standing with her in the doorway, content and amused and all other feelings wonderful, he raised a brow and replied, “Please, let me guess – you intend to grow a forest on the roof? Perhaps carve a moat through the Hightown mansion district?”

“I like the way you think,” she grinned, opening the door. They were greeted by the scent of soap and wine; a familiar, soothing smell that was as home to Fenris now as the very walls, floor and ceiling of the house. 

As they crossed the entrance room, the sight of the Main Hall ahead had Fenris gripping Artemis’ hand just that little bit tighter. The scene did not mock him as it had not too long ago. The pool of moonlight, the sapphire rug, the swirling dust motes - this time, they were all very welcoming... 

_Promising._

Artemis was right, of course. Now that they were free of bindings, the scope of what they could accomplish was far more impressive.

But whatever this next, grand endeavour, it would have to wait until tomorrow.

Tonight, Fenris had other plans.

Tonight, tether or no tether, he and Artemis would be staying well within six feet.

✷ Fin ✷

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it! I am terribly sorry for the long chapter waits. Better late than never though, right? Anyway, thank you so very very much for reading this through; you've all been more patient than I deserve, and just as sweet. 
> 
> Copypasta AN from the Kinkmeme: 
> 
> I'm not sure what you were all expecting from the final instalment, but hopefully you found it satisfying. Though there were certain elements that had been a given since the beginning (the token making that appearance, for example), I spent a lot of time debating exactly how everything would go down. Would the final chapters be happy happy happy, for example? Or would there be angst preceding the happy ending? After all, I always choose what feels real for the characters, never just force them in the direction I want. 
> 
> As Fenris and Artemis are terrified of being rejected by the other, and the first real test of their devotion was set to take place almost _immediately_ after their night together, I decided that angst was most likely. As secure as they might have become in their friendship, romance is a whole different kind of vulnerability. They needed to go through that whole process. They needed to experience that doubt, so that they could then overcome it. The tether was a catalyst, not a foundation. 
> 
> Random thing: the song 'In My Veins' by Andrew Belle (feat. Erin McCarley) always makes me think of the scene of Fenris alone in his manor, longing for Hawke. I'm wondering if it always will :/.


End file.
